Branch  of  the  College  of  Agriculture 
Davis,  California 


• 


MARIA 
GHAPDELAINE 

A  TALE  OF  THE 
LAKE  ST.  JOHN  COUNTRY 


BY 

LOUIS  HE^MON 

" 

TRANSLATED  BY 

W.  H.  BLAKE 

Author  of  "Brown  Waters,"  etc. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1921 
All  rights  reserved 


mr  OF  CALIFttlHIA 
LIBRARY 

BRANCH  OF  THE 
COLLEGE  OP  AGRICULTURE 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Copyright,  1921 
By  The  Macmillan  Company 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  December,  1921 

Second  printing  January,  1922 

Third  printing  February,  1922 

Fourth  printing  February,  1922 

Fifth  printing  March,  1922 

Sixth  printing  March,  1922 

Seventh  printing  March,  1922 

Eighth  printing  April,  1922 

Ninth  printing  July,  1922 

Tenth  printing  August,  1922 

Eleventh  printing  August,  1922 

Twelfth  printing  October,  1922 

Fourteenth  printing  November,  1923 


CONDE"  NAST  PRESS     GREENWICH,  CONN. 


CONTENTS 


I  PERIBONKA 1 

II  HOME  IN  THE  CLEARING 27 

III  FRANQOIS  PASSES  BY 45 

IV  WILD  LAND 59 

V  THE  Vows 77 

VI  THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 105 

VII  A  MEAGER  REAPING 119 

VIII  ENTRENCHED  AGAINST  WINTER  ...  125 

IX  ONE  THOUSAND  AVES 135 

X  STRAYING  TRACKS 153 

XI  THE  INTERPRETER  OF  GOD 173 

XII  LOVE  BEARING  GIFTS 185 

XIII  LOVE  BEARING  CHAINS 211 

XIV  INTO  THE  DEEP  SILENCE 225 

XV  THAT  WE  PERISH  NOT 257 

XVI  PLEDGED  TO  THE  RACE  285 


CHAPTER  I 
PERIBONKA 


The  door  opened,  and 


CHAPTER  I 
PERIBONKA 

lie,  missa  est 

|  HE  door  opened,  and  the  men  of 
the  congregation  began  to  come 
out  of  the  church  at  Peribonka. 
A  moment  earlier  it  had  seemed 
quite  deserted,  this  church  set  by 
the  roadside  on  the  high  bank  of 
the  Peribonka,  whose  icy  snow-covered  sur 
face  was  like  a  winding  strip  of  plain.  The 
snow  lay  deep  upon  road  and  fields,  for  the 
April  sun  was  powerless  to  send  warmth 
through  the  gray  clouds,  and  the  heavy  spring 
rains  were  yet  to  come.  This  chill  and  uni 
versal  white,  the  humbleness  of  the  wooden 
church  and  the  wooden  houses  scattered 
along  the  road,  the  gloomy  forest  edging  so 
close  that  it  seemed  to  threaten,  these  all 
spoke  of  a  harsh  existence  in  a  stern  land. 
But  as  the  men  and  boys  passed  through  the 
doorway  and  gathered  in  knots  on  the  broad 
steps,  their  cheery  salutations,  the  chaff 
flung  from  group  to  group,  the  continual  in- 
[3] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

terchange  of  talk,  merry  or  sober,  at  once 
disclosed  the  unquenchable  joyousness  of  a 
people  ever  filled  with  laughter  and  good 
humour. 

Cleophas  Pesant,  son  of  Thadee  Pesant 
the  blacksmith,  was  already  in  light-coloured 
summer  garments,  and  sported  an  American 
coat  with  broad  padded  shoulders;  though  on 
this  cold  Sunday  he  had  not  ventured  to  dis 
card  his  winter  cap  of  black  cloth  with  hare- 
lined  ear-laps  for  the  hard  felt  hat  he  would 
have  preferred  to  wear.  Beside  him  Egide 
Simard,  and  others  who  had  come  a  long 
road  by  sleigh,  fastened  their  long  fur  coats 
as  they  left  the  church,  drawing  them  in  at 
the  waist  with  scarlet  sashes.  The  young 
folk  of  the  village,  very  smart  in  coats  with 
otter  collars,  gave  deferential  greeting  to  old 
Nazaire  Larouche;  a  tall  man  with  gray  hair 
and  huge  bony  shoulders  who  had  in  no  wise 
altered  for  the  mass  his  everyday  garb:  short 
jacket  of  brown  cloth  lined  with  sheepskin, 
patched  trousers,  and  thick  woollen  socks 
under  moose-hide  moccasins. 

"Well,  Mr.  Larouche,  do  things  go  pretty 
well  across  the  water?*' 

[4] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

"Not  badly,  my  lads,  not  so  badly." 

Everyone  drew  his  pipe  from  his  pocket, 
and  the  pig's  bladder  filled  with  tobacco 
leaves  cut  by  hand,  and,  after  the  hour  and  a 
half  of  restraint,  began  to  smoke  with  evident 
satisfaction.  The  first  puffs  brought  talk  of 
the  weather,  the  coming  spring,  the  state  of 
the  ice  on  Lake  St.  John  and  the  rivers,  of 
their  several  doings  and  the  parish  gossip; 
after  the  manner  of  men  who,  living  far  apart 
on  the  worst  of  roads,  see  one  another  but 
once  a  week. 

"The  lake  is  solid  yet,"  said  Gleophas  Pe- 
sant,  "but  the  rivers  are  no  longer  safe.  The 
ice  went  this  week  beside  the  sand-bank  op 
posite  the  island,  where  there  have  been 
warm  spring-holes  all  winter."  Others  began 
to  discuss  the  chances  of  the  crops,  before  the 
ground  was  even  showing. 

"  I  tell  you  that  we  shall  have  a  lean  year," 
asserted  one  old  fellow,  "the  frost  got  in  be 
fore  the  last  snows  fell." 

At  length  the  talk  slackened  and  all  faced 
the  top  step,  where  Napoleon  Laliberte  was 
making  ready,  in  accord  with  his  weekly  cus 
tom,  to  announce  the  parish  news.  He  stood 

[5] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

there  motionless  for  a  little  while,  awaiting 
quiet, — hands  deep  in  the  pockets  of  the 
heavy  lynx  coat,  knitting  his  forehead  and 
half  closing  his  keen  eyes  under  the  fur  cap 
pulled  well  over  his  ears;  and  when  silence 
fell  he  began  to  give  the  news  at  the  full  pitch 
of  his  voice,  in  the  manner  of  a  carter  who 
encourages  his  horses  on  a  hill. 

"  The  work  on  the  wharf  will  go  forward  at 
once  ...  I  have  been  sent  money  by  the  Gov 
ernment,  and  those  looking  for  a  job  should 
see  me  before  vespers.  If  you  want  this 
money  to  stay  in  the  parish  instead  of  being 
sent  back  to  Quebec  you  had  better  lose  no 
time  in  speaking  to  me." 

Some  moved  over  in  his  direction;  others, 
indifferent,  met  his  announcement  with  a 
laugh.  The  remark  was  heard  in  an  envious 
undertone: — "And  who  will  be  foreman  at 
three  dollars  a  day?  Perhaps  good  old  Lali- 
berte  .  .  ." 

But  it  was  said  jestingly  rather  than  in 
malice,  and  the  speaker  ended  by  adding  his 
own  laugh. 

Hands  still  in  the  pockets  of  his  big  coat, 
straightening  himself  and  squaring  his  shoul- 
[6] 


MARIA          CHAP   DELAINE 

ders  as  he  stood  there  upon  the  highest  step, 
Napoleon  Laliberte  proceeded  in  loudest 
tones: — "A  surveyor  from  Roberval  will  be  in 
the  parish  next  week.  If  anyone  wishes  his 
land  surveyed  before  mending  his  fences  for 
the  summer,  this  is  to  let  him  know." 

The  item  was  received  without  interest. 
Peribonka  farmers  are  not  particular  about 
correcting  their  boundaries  to  gain  or  lose  a 
few  square  feet,  since  the  most  enterprising 
among  them  have  still  two-thirds  of  their 
grants  to  clear, — endless  acres  of  woodland 
and  swamp  to  reclaim. 

He  continued: — "Two  men  are  up  here 
with  money  to  buy  furs.  If  you  have  any 
bear,  mink,  muskrat  or  fox  you  will  find  these 
men  at  the  store  until  Wednesday,  or  you  can 
apply  to  Francois  Paradis  of  Mistassini  who 
is  with  them.  They  have  plenty  of  money 
and  will  pay  cash  for  first-class  pelts."  His 
news  finished,  he  descended  the  steps.  A 
sharp-faced  little  fellow  took  his  place. 

"  Who  wants  to  buy  a  fine  young  pig  of  my 
breeding?"  he  asked,  indicating  with  his  fin 
ger  something  shapeless  that  struggled  in  a 
bag  at  his  feet.  A  great  burst  of  laughter 

m 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

greeted  him.  They  knew  them  well,  these 
pigs  of  Hormidas'  raising.  No  bigger  than 
rats,  and  quick  as  squirrels  to  jump  the 
fences. 

"Twenty-five  cents!"  one  young  man  bid 
chaffingly. 

"Fifty  cents!" 

"A  dollar!" 

"Don't  play  the  fool,  Jean.  Your  wife  will 
never  let  you  pay  a  dollar  for  such  a  pig  as 
that." 

Jean  stood  his  ground: — "A  dollar,  I 
won't  go  back  on  it." 

Hormidas  Berube  with  a  disgusted  look  on 
his  face  awaited  another  bid,  but  only  got 
jokes  and  laughter. 

Meantime  the  women  in  their  turn  had  be 
gun  to  leave  the  church.  Young  or  old,  pretty 
or  ugly,  nearly  all  were  well  clad  in  fur  cloaks, 
or  in  coats  of  heavy  cloth;  for,  honouring  the 
Sunday  mass,  sole  festival  of  their  lives,  they 
had  doffed  coarse  blouses  and  homespun 
petticoats,  and  a  stranger  might  well  have 
stood  amazed  to  find  them  habited  almost 
with  elegance  in  this  remote  spot;  still  French 
to  their  finger-tips  in  the  midst  of  the  vast 
[8] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

lonely  forest  and  the  snow,  and  as  taste 
fully  dressed,  these  peasant  women,  as 
most  of  the  middle-class  folk  in  provincial 
France. 

Cleophas  Pesant  waited  for  Louisa  Trem- 
blay  who  was  alone,  and  they  went  off  to 
gether  along  the  wooden  sidewalk  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  house.  Others  were  satisfied 
to  exchange  jocular  remarks  with  the  young 
girls  as  they  passed,  in  the  easy  and  familiar 
fashion  of  the  country, — natural  enough  too 
where  the  children  have  grown  up  together 
from  infancy. 

Pite  Gaudreau,  looking  toward  the  door  of 
the  church,  remarked: — "Maria  Ghapdelaine 
is  back  from  her  visit  to  St.  Prime,  and  there  is 
her  father  come  to  fetch  her."  Many  in  the 
village  scarcely  knew  the  Chapdelaines. 

"  Is  it  Samuel  Ghapdelaine  who  has  a  farm 
in  the  woods  on  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
above  Honfleur?" 

"That's  the  man." 

"And  the  girl  with  him  is  his  daughter? 
Maria  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  she  has  been  spending  a  month  at  St. 
Prime  with  her  mother's  people.  They  are 

[91 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Bouchards,  related  to  Wilfrid  Bouchard  of 
St.  Gedeon  .  .  ." 

Interested  glances  were  directed  toward 
the  top  of  the  steps.  One  of  the  young  people 
paid  Maria  the  countryman's  tribute  of  ad 
miration: — "  A  fine  hearty  girl!"  said  he. 

"Right  you  are!  A  fine  hearty  girl,  and 
one  with  plenty  of  spirit  too.  A  pity  that  she 
lives  so  far  off  in  the  woods.  How  are  the 
young  fellows  of  the  village  to  manage  an 
evening  at  their  place,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river  and  above  the  falls,  more  than  a  dozen 
miles  away  and  the  last  of  them  with  next  to 
no  road?" 

The  smiles  were  bold  enough  as  they  spoke 
of  her,  this  inaccessible  beauty;  but  as  she 
came  down  the  wooden  steps  with  her  father 
and  passed  near  by,  they  were  taken  with 
bashfulness  and  awkwardly  drew  back,  as 
though  something  more  lay  between  her  and 
them  than  the  crossing  of  a  river  and  twelve 
miles  of  indifferent  woodland  road. 

Little  by  little  the  groups  before  the  church 
dissolved.  Some  returned  to  their  houses, 
after  picking  up  all  the  news  that  was  going; 
others,  before  departing,  were  for  spending  an 

[10] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

hour  in  one  of  the  two  gathering  places  of  the 
village;  the  cures  house  or  the  general  store. 
Those  who  came  from  the  back  concessions, 
stretching  along  the  very  border  of  the  forest, 
one  by  one  untied  their  horses  from  the  row 
and  brought  their  sleighs  to  the  foot  of  the 
steps  for  their  women  and  children. 

Samuel  Ghapdelaine  and  Maria  had  gone 
but  a  little  way  when  a  young  man  halted 
them. 

"  Good  day  to  you,  Mr.  Ghapdelaine.  Good 
day,  Miss  Maria.  I  am  in  great  luck  at  meet 
ing  you,  since  your  farm  is  so  high  up  the  river 
and  I  don't  often  come  this  way  myself." 

His  bold  eyes  travelled  from  one  to  the 
other.  When  he  averted  them  it  seemed  by  a 
conscious  effort  of  politeness;  swiftly  they  re 
turned,  and  their  glance,  bright,  keen,  full  of 
honest  eagerness,  was  questioning  and  dis 
concerting. 

"Frangois  Paradis!"  exclaimed  Chapde- 
laine. 

"This  is  indeed  a  bit  of  luck,  for  I  haven't 
seen  you  this  long  while,  Frangois.  And  your 
father  dead  too.  Have  you  held  on  to  the 
farm?" 

[HI 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

The  young  man  did  not  answer;  he  was 
looking  expectantly  at  Maria  with  a  frank 
smile,  awaiting  a  word  from  her. 

"You  remember  Frangois  Paradis  of  Mis- 
tassini,  Maria?  He  has  changed  very  little." 

"Nor  have  you,  Mr.  Ghapdelaine.  But 
your  daughter,  that  is  a  different  story;  she 
is  not  the  same,  yet  I  should  have  known  her 
at  once." 

They  had  spent  the  last  evening  at  St. 
Michel  de  Mistassini — viewing  everything  in 
the  full  light  of  the  afternoon:  the  great 
wooden  bridge,  covered  in  and  painted  red, 
not  unlike  an  amazingly  long  Noah's  ark;  the 
high  hills  rising  almost  from  the  very  banks  of 
the  river,  the  old  monastery  crouched  be 
tween  the  river  and  the  heights,  the  water 
that  seethed  and  whitened,  flinging  itself  in 
wild  descent  down  the  staircase  of  a  giant. 
But  to  see  this  young  man  after  seven  years, 
and  to  hear  his  name  spoken,  aroused  in 
Maria  memories  clearer  and  more  lively  than 
she  was  able  to  evoke  of  the  events  and  sights 
of  yesterday. 

"Frangois  Paradis!  .  .  .  Why  surely,  fa 
ther,  I  remember  Frangois  Paradis."  And 

[12] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

Francois,  content,  gave  answer  to  the  ques 
tions  of  a  moment  ago. 

"No,  Mr.  Chapdelaine,  I  have  not  kept  the 
farm.  When  the  good  man  died  I  sold  every 
thing,  and  since  then  I  have  been  nearly  all 
the  time  in  the  woods,  trapping  or  bartering 
with  the  Indians  of  Lake  Mistassini  and  the 
Riviere  aux  Foins.  I  also  spent  a  couple  of 
years  in  the  Labrador."  His  look  passed 
once  more  from  Samuel  Chapdelaine  to 
Maria,  and  her  eyes  fell. 

"Are  you  going  home  to-day?"  he  asked. 

"Yes;  right  after  dinner." 

"I  am  glad  that  I  saw  you,  for  I  shall  be 
passing  up  the  river  near  your  place  in  two  or 
three  weeks,  when  the  ice  goes  out.  I  am  here 
with  some  Belgians  who  are  going  to  buy  furs 
from  the  Indians;  we  shall  push  up  so  soon  as 
the  river  is  clear,  and  if  we  pitch  a  tent  above 
the  falls  close  to  your  farm  I  will  spend  the 
evening  with  you." 

"That  is  good,  Francois,  we  will  expect 
you." 

The  alders  formed  a  thick  and  unbroken 
hedge  along  the  river  Peribonka ;  but  the  leaf 
less  stems  did  not  shut  away  the  steeply  slop- 
US] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

ing  bank,  the  levels  of  the  frozen  river,  the 
dark  hem  of  the  woods  crowding  to  the  far 
ther  edge — leaving  between  the  solitude  of  the 
great  trees,  thick-set  and  erect,  and  the  bare 
desolateness  of  the  ice  only  room  for  a  few 
narrow  fields,  still  for  the  most  part  uncouth 
with  stumps,  so  narrow  indeed  that  they 
seemed  to  be  constrained  in  the  grasp  of  an 
unkindly  land. 

To  Maria  Chapdelaine,  glancing  inatten 
tively  here  and  there,  there  was  nothing  in  all 
this  to  make  one  feel  lonely  or  afraid.  Never 
had  she  known  other  prospect  from  October 
to  May,  save  those  still  more  depressing  and 
sad,  farther  yet  from  the  dwellings  of  man  and 
the  marks  of  his  labour;  and  moreover  all 
about  her  that  morning  had  taken  on  a  softer 
outline,  was  brighter  with  a  new  promise,  by 
virtue  of  something  sweet  and  gracious  that 
the  future  had  in  its  keeping.  Perhaps  the 
coming  springtime  .  .  .  perhaps  another 
happiness  that  was  stealing  toward  her, 
nameless  and  unrecognized. 

Samuel  Chapdelaine  and  Maria  were  to 
dine  with  their  relative  Azalma  Larouche,  at 
whose  house  they  had  spent  the  night.  No 

[14] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

one  was  there  but  the  hostess,  for  many  years 
a  widow,  and  old  Nazaire  Larouche,  her 
brother-in-law.  Azalma  was  a  tall,  flat- 
chested  woman  with  the  undeveloped  fea 
tures  of  a  child,  who  talked  very  quickly  and 
almost  without  taking  breath  while  she  made 
ready  the  meal  in  the  kitchen.  From  tune  to 
time  she  halted  her  preparations  and  sat 
down  opposite  her  visitors,  less  for  the  mo 
ment's  repose  than  to  give  some  special  em 
phasis  to  what  she  was  about  to  say;  but  the 
seasoning  of  a  dish  or  the  setting  of  the  table 
speedily  claimed  her  attention  again,  and  the 
monologue  went  on  amid  the  clatter  of  dishes 
and  frying-pans. 

The  pea-soup  was  soon  ready  and  on  the 
table.  While  eating,  the  two  men  talked 
about  the  condition  of  their  farms  and  the 
state  of  the  spring  ice. 

"You  should  be  safe  enough  for  crossing 
this  evening,"  said  Nazaire  Larouche,  "but  it 
will  be  touch-and-go,  and  I  think  you  will  be 
about  the  last.  The  current  is  strong  below 
the  fall  and  already  we  have  had  three  days 
of  rain." 

[15] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"Everybody  says  that  the  ice  will  hold  for 
a  long  time  yet,"  replied  his  sister-in-law. 
"Better  sleep  here  again  to-night,  and  after 
supper  the  young  folks  from  the  village  will 
drop  in  arid  spend  the  evening.  It  is  only  fair 
that  Maria  should  have  a  little  more  amuse 
ment  before  you  drag  her  off  into  your  woods 
up  there." 

"She  has  had  plenty  of  gaiety  at  St.  Prime; 
singing  and  games  almost  every  night.  We 
are  greatly  obliged  to  you,  but  I  am  going  to 
put  the  horse  in  immediately  after  dinner  so 
as  to  get  home  in  good  time." 

Old  Nazaire  Larouche  spoke  of  the  morn 
ing's  sermon  which  had  struck  him  as  well 
reasoned  and  fine;  then  after  a  spell  of 
silence  he  exclaimed  abruptly: — "Have  you 
baked?" 

His  amazed  sister-in-law  gaped  at  him  for 
a  moment  before  it  stole  upon  her  that  this 
was  his  way  of  asking  for  bread.  A  little  later 
he  attacked  her  with  another  question: — "Is 
your  pump  working  well?" 

Which  signified  that  there  was  no  water  on 
the  table.  Azalma  rose  to  get  it,  and  behind 
her  back  the  old  fellow  sent  a  sly  wink  in  the 

[16] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

direction  of  Maria.  "I  assault  her  with  par 
ables,"  chuckled  he.  "It's  politer." 

On  the  plank  walls  of  the  house  were  pasted 
old  newspapers,  and  calendars  hung  there 
such  as  the  manufacturers  of  farm  implements 
or  grain  merchants  scatter  abroad,  and  also 
prints  of  a  religious  character;  a  representa 
tion  in  crudest  colour  and  almost  innocent  of 
perspective  of  the  basilica  at  Ste.  Anne  de 
BeauprS;  a  likeness  of  Pope  Pius  X. ;  a  chromo 
where  the  palely-smiling  Virgin  Mary  dis 
closed  her  bleeding  heart  encircled  with  a 
golden  nimbus. 

"This  is  nicer  than  our  house,"  thought 
Maria  to  herself. 

Nazaire  Larouche  kept  directing  attention 
to  his  wants  with  dark  sayings: — "Was  your 
pig  very  lean?"  he  demanded;  or  perhaps: — 
"Fond  of  maple  sugar,  are  you?  I  never  get 
enough  of  it  .  .  ." 

And  then  Azalma  would  help  him  to  a  sec 
ond  slice  of  pork  or  fetch  the  cake  of  maple 
sugar  from  the  cupboard.  When  she  wearied 
of  these  strange  table-manners  and  bade  him 
help  himself  in  the  usual  fashion,  he  smoothed 
her  ruffled  temper  with  good-humoured  excuses, 

[17] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"Quite  right.  Quite  right.  I  won't  do  it 
again;  but  you  always  loved  a  joke,  Azalma. 
When  you  have  youngsters  like  me  at  dinner 
you  must  look  for  a  little  nonsense." 

Maria  smiled  to  think  how  like  he  was  to  her 
father;  both  tall  and  broad,  with  grizzled  hair, 
their  faces  tanned  to  the  colour  of  leather, 
and,  shining  from  their  eyes,  the  quenchless 
spirit  of  youth  which  keeps  alive  in  the 
countryman  of  Quebec  his  imperishable  sim 
ple-heartedness. 

They  took  the  road  almost  as  soon  as  the 
meal  was  over.  The  snow,  thawed  on  top  by 
the  early  rains,  and  frozen  anew  during  the 
cold  nights,  gave  an  icy  surface  that  slipped 
away  easily  beneath  the  runners.  The  high 
blue  hills  on  the  other  side  of  Lake  St.  John 
which  closed  the  horizon  behind  them  were 
gradually  lost  to  view  as  they  returned  up  the 
long  bend  of  the  river. 

Passing  the 'church,  Samuel  Chapdelaine 
said  thoughtfully: — "The  mass  is  beautiful. 
I  am  often  very  sorry  that  we  live  so  far  from 
churches.  Perhaps  not  being  able  to  attend  to 
our  religion  every  Sunday  hinders  us  from  be 
ing  just  so  fortunate  as  other  people." 
[18] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"It  is  not  our  fault,"  sighed  Maria,  "we 
are  too  far  away." 

Her  father  shook  his  head  regretfully.  The 
imposing  ceremonial,  the  Latin  chants,  the 
lighted  tapers,  the  solemnity  of  the  Sunday 
mass  never  failed  to  fill  him  with  exaltation. 
In  a  little  he  began  to  sing : — 

J'irai  la  voir  un  jour, 
M'asseoir  pr&s  de  son  trone, 
Recevoir  ma  couronne 
Et  regner  a  mon  tour  .  .  . 

His  voice  was  strong  and  true,  and  he  used 
the  full  volume  of  it,  singing  with  deep  fer 
vour;  but  ere  long  his  eyes  began  to  close  and 
his  chin  to  drop  toward  his  breast.  Driving 
always  made  him  sleepy,  and  the  horse, 
aware  that  the  usual  drowsiness  had  posses 
sion  of  his  master,  slackened  his  pace  and  at 
length  fell  to  a  walk. 

"Get  up  there,  Charles  Eugene!" 
He  had  suddenly  waked  and  pui  his  hand 
out  for  the  whip.  Charles  Eugene  resigned 
himself  and  began  to  trot  againKMany  gener 
ations  ago  a  Chapdelaine  cherished  a  long 
feud  with  a  neighbour  who  bore  these  names, 
and  had  forthwith  bestowed  them  upon  an 

[19] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

old,  tired,  lame  horse  of  his,  that  he  might  give 
himself  the  pleasure  every  day  when  passing 
the  enemy's  house  of  calling  out  very  loudly : 
— "Charles  Eugene,  ill-favoured  beast  that 
you  are!  Wretched,  badly  brought  up  crea 
ture!  Get  along,  Charles  Eugene!"  For  a 
whole  century  the  quarrel  was  dead  and 
buried;  but  the  Ghapdelaines  ever  since  had 
named  their  successive  horses  Charles  Eugene. 
\/  Once  again  the  hymn  rose  in  clear  ringing 
tones,  intense  with  feeling: — 

Au  ciel,  au  ciel,  au  ciel, 
J'irai  la  voir  un  jour  .  .  . 

And  again  sleep  was  master,  the  voice  died 
away,  and  Maria  gathered  up  the  reins 
dropped  from  her  father's  hand. 

The  icy  road  held  alongside  the  frozen  river. 
The  houses  on  the  other  shore,  each  sur 
rounded  with  its  patch  of  cleared  land,  were 
sadly  distant  from  one  another.  Behind  the 
clearings,  and  on  either  side  of  them  to  the 
river's  bank,  it  was  always  forest:  a  dark 
green  background  of  cypress  against  which  a 
lonely  birch  tree  stood  out  here  and  there,  its 
bole  naked  and  white  as  the  column  of  a 
ruined  temple* 

[20] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

On  the  other  side  of  the  road  the  strip  of 
cleared  land  was  continuous  and  broader;  the 
houses,  set  closer  together,  seemed  an  outpost 
of  the  village;  but  ever  behind  the  bare  fields 
marched  the  forest,  following  like  a  shadow,  a 
gloomy  frieze  without  end  between  white 
ground  and  gray  sky. 

"Charles  Eugene,  get  on  there  1" 

Chapdelaine  woke  and  made  his  usual 
good-humoured  feint  toward  the  whip;  but  by 
the  time  the  horse  slowed  down,  after  a  few 
livelier  paces,  he  had  dropped  off  again,  his 
hands  lying  open  upon  his  knees  showing  the 
worn  palms  of  the  horse-hide  mittens,  his 
chin  resting  upon  the  coat's  thick  fur. 

After  a  couple  of  miles  the  road  climbed  a 
steep  hill  and  entered  the  unbroken  woods. 
The  houses  standing  at  intervals  in  the  flat 
country  all  the  way  from  the  village  came 
abruptly  to  an  end,  and  there  was  no  longer 
anything  for  the  eye  to  rest  upon  but  a  wilder 
ness  of  bare  trunks  rising  out  of  the  universal 
whiteness.  Even  the  incessant  dark  green  of 
balsam,  spruce  and  gray  pine  was  rare;  the 
few  young  and  living  trees  were  lost  among 
the  endless  dead,  either  lying  on  the  ground 

[21]   " 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

and  buried  in  snow,  or  still  erect  but  stripped 
and  blackened.  Twenty  years  before  great 
forest  fires  had  swept  through,  and  the  new 
growth  was  only  pushing  its  way  amid  the 
standing  skeletons  and  the  charred  down- 
timber.  Little  hills  followed  one  upon  the 
other,  and  the  road  was  a  succession  of  ups 
and  downs  scarcely  more  considerable  than 
the  slopes  of  an  ocean  swell,  from  trough  to 
crest,  from  crest  to  trough. 

Maria  Ghapdelaine  drew  the  cloak  about 
her,  slipped  her  hands  under  the  warm  robe 
of  gray  goat-skin  and  half  closed  her  eyes. 
There  was  nothing  to  look  at;  in  the  settle 
ments  new  houses  and  barns  might  go  up  from 
year  to  year,  or  be  deserted  and  tumble  into 
ruin;  but  the  life  of  the  woods  is  so  unhurried 
that  one  must  needs  have  more  than  the  pa 
tience  of  a  human  being  to  await  and  mark  its 
advance. 

Alone  of  the  three  travellers  the  horse 
remained  fully  awake.  The  sleigh  glided  over 
the  hard  snow,  grazing  the  stumps  on  either 
hand  level  with  the  track.  Charles  Eugene 
accurately  followed  every  turn  of  the  road, 
took  the  short  pitches  at  a  full  trot  and 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

climbed  the  opposite  hills  with  a  leisurely 
pace,  like  the  capable  animal  he  was,  who 
might  be  trusted  to  conduct  his  masters  safely 
to  the  door-step  of  their  dwelling  without 
being  annoyed  by  guiding  word  or  touch  of 
rein. 

Some  miles  farther,  and  the  woods  fell 
away  again,  disclosing  the  river.  The  road 
descended  the  last  hill  from  the  higher  land 
and  sank  almost  to  the  level  of  the  ice.  Three 
houses  were  dotted  along  the  mile  of  bank 
above;  but  they  were  humbler  buildings  than 
those  of  the  village,  and  behind  them  scarcely 
any  land  was  cleared  and  there  was  little 
sign  of  cultivation: — built  there,  they  seemed 
to  be,  only  in  witness  of  the  presence  of  man. 

Charles  Eugene  swung  sharply  to  the  right, 
stiffened  his  forelegs  to  hold  back  on  the  slope 
and  pulled  up  on  the  edge  of  the  ice.  Chapde- 
laine  opened  his  eyes. 

"Here,  father,"  said  Maria,  "take  the 
reins!"  He  seized  them,  but  before  giving  his 
horse  the  word,  took  some  moments  for  a 
careful  scrutiny  of  the  frozen  surface. 

"There  is  a  little  water  on  the  ice,"  said  he, 
"  and  the  snow  has  melted ;  but  we  ought  to  be 

[23] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

able  to  cross  all  the  same.  Get  up,  Charles 
Eugene." 

The  horse  lowered  his  head  and  sniffed  at 
the  white  expanse  in  front  of  him,  then  adven 
tured  upon  it  without  more  ado.  The  ruts  of 
the  whiter  road  were  gone,  the  little  firs  which 
had  marked  it  at  intervals  were  nearly  all 
fallen  and  lying  in  the  half-thawed  snow;  as 
they  passed  the  island  the  ice  cracked  twice 
without  breaking.  Charles  Eugene  trotted 
smartly  toward  the  house  of  Charles  Lindsay 
on  the  other  bank.  But  when  the  sleigh 
reached  midstream,  below  the  great  fall,  the 
horse  had  perforce  to  slacken  pace  by  reason 
of  the  water  which  had  overflowed  the  ice  and 
wetted  the  snow.  Very  slowly  they  ap 
proached  the  shore;  there  remained  only  some 
thirty  feet  to  be  crossed  when  the  ice  began 
to  go  up  and  down  under  the  horse's  hoofs. 

Old  Chapdelaine,  fully  awake  now,  was  on 
his  feet;  his  eyes  beneath  the  fur  cap  shone 
with  courage  and  quick  resolve. 

"  Go  on,  Charles  Eugene !  Go  on  there ! "  he 

roared  in  his  big  voice.  The  wise  beast  dug  his 

calked  shoes  through  the  deep  slush  and 

sprang  for  the  bank,  throwing  himself  into 

[**] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINB 

the  collar  at  every  leap.  Just  as  they  reached 
land  a  cake  of  ice  tilted  beneath  their  weight 
and  sank,  leaving  a  space  of  open  water. 

Samuel  Chapdelaine  turned  about.  "We 
are  the  last  to  cross  this  year,"  said  he.  And 
he  halted  the  horse  to  breathe  before  putting 
him  at  the  hill. 

After  following  the  main  road  a  little  way 
they  left  it  for  another  which  plunged  into  the 
woods.  It  was  scarcely  more  than  a  rough 
trail,  still  beset  with  roots,  turning  and  twist 
ing  in  all  directions  to  avoid  boulders  and 
stumps.  Rising  to  a  plateau  where  it  wound 
back  and  forth  through  burnt  lands  it  gave  an 
occasional  glimpse  of  steep  hillside,  of  the 
rocks  piled  in  the  channel  of  the  frozen  rapid, 
the  higher  and  precipitous  opposing  slope 
above  the  fall,  and  at  the  last  resumed  a 
desolate  way  amid  fallen  trees  and  blackened 
rampikes. 

The  little  stony  hillocks  they  passed 
through  seemed  to  close  in  behind  them;  the 
burnt  lands  gave  place  to  darkly-crowding 
spruces  and  firs;  now  and  then  they  caught 
momentary  sight  of  the  distant  mountains 
on  the  Riviere  Alec;  and  soon  the  travellers 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

discerned  a  clearing  in  the  forest,  a  mounting 
column  of  smoke,  the  bark  of  a  dog. 

"They  will  be  glad  to  see  you  again, 
Maria,"  said  her  father.  "They  have  been 
lonesome  for  you,  every  one  of  them." 


[26] 


CHAPTER  II 
HOME  IN  THE  CLEARING 


It  was  supper-time 


CHAPTER  II 
HOME  IN  THE  CLEARING 

T  was  supper-time  before  Maria 
had  answered  all  the  questions, 
told  of  her  journey  down  to  the 
last  and  littlest  item,  and  given 
not  only  the  news  of  St.  Prime 
and  Peribonka  but  everything  else 
she  had  been  able  to  gather  up  upon  the  road. 
Tit'Be,  seated  facing  his  sister,  smoked  pipe 
after  pipe  without  taking  his  eyes  off  her  for  a 
single  moment,  fearful  of  missing  some  highly 
important  disclosure  that  she  had  hitherto 
held  back.  Little  Alma  Rose  stood  with  an 
arm  about  her  neck;  Telesphore  was  listening 
too,  as  he  mended  his  dog's  harness  with  bits 
of  string.  Madame  Chapdelaine  stirred  the 
fire  in  the  big  cast-iron  stove,  came  and  went, 
brought  from  the  cupboard  plates  and  dishes, 
the  loaf  of  bread  and  pitcher  of  milk,  tilted 
the  great  molasses  jar  over  a  glass  jug.  Not 
seldom  she  stopped  to  ask  Maria  something, 
or  to  catch  what  she  was  saying,  and  stood  for 
a  few  moments  dreaming,  hands  on  her  hips, 

[20] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

as  the  villages  spoken  of  rose  before  her  in 
memory. 

"...  And  so  the  church  is  finished — a 
beautiful  stone  church,  with  pictures  on  the 
walls  and  coloured  glass  in  the  windows  .  .  . 
How  splendid  that  must  be!  Johnny  Bou 
chard  built  a  new  barn  last  year,  and  it  is  a 
little  Perron,  daughter  of  Abelard  Perron  of 
St.  Jerome,  who  teaches  school  .  .  .  Eight 
years  since  I  was  at  St.  Prime,  just  to  think 
of  it!  A  fine  parish  indeed,  that  would  have 
suited  me  nicely;  good  level  land  as  far  as  you 
can  see,  no  rock  cropping  up  and  no  bush, 
everywhere  square-cornered  fields  with  hand 
some  straight  fences  and  heavy  soil.  Only 
two  hours'  drive  to  the  railway  .  .  .  Per 
haps  it  is  wicked  of  me  to  say  so;  but  all  my 
married  life  I  have  felt  sorry  that  your 
father's  taste  was  for  moving,  and  pushing 
on  and  on  into  the  woods,  and  not  for  living 
on  a  farm  in  one  of  the  old  parishes." 

Through  the  little  square  window  she  threw 
a  melancholy  glance  over  the  scanty  cleared 
fields  behind  the  house,  the  barn  built  of  ill- 
joined  planks  that  showed  marks  of  fire,  and 
the  land  beyond  still  covered  with  stumps  and 

[30] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

encompassed  by  the  forest,  whence  any  return 
of  hay  or  grain  could  only  be  looked  for  at  the 
end  of  long  and  patient  waiting. 

"0  look,"  said  Alma  Rose,  "here  is  Chien 
come  for  his  share  of  petting."  The  dog  laid 
his  long  head  with  the  sad  eyes  upon  her  knee; 
uttering  little  friendly  words,  Maria  bent  and 
caressed  him. 

"He  has  been  lonely  without  you  like  the 
rest  of  us,"  came  from  Alma  Rose.  "Every 
morning  he  used  to  look  at  your  bed  to  see 
if  you  were  not  back."  She  called  him  to  her. 
"  Gome,  Ghien;  come  and  let  me  pet  you  too." 

Chien  went  obediently  from  one  to  the 
other,  half  closing  his  eyes  at  each  pat.  Maria 
looked  about  her  to  see  if  some  change,  un 
likely/though  that  might  be,  had  taken  place 
while  she  was  away. 

t/The  great  three-decked  stove  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  house;  the  sheet-iron  stove-pipe, 
after  mounting  for  some  feet,  turned  at  a 
right  angle  and  was  carried  through  the  house 
to  the  outside,  so  that  none  of  the  precious 
warmth  should  be  lost.  In  a  corner  was  the 
large  wooden  cupboard;  close  by,  the  table;  a 
bench  against  the  wall;  on  the  other  side  of 
[31] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

the  door  the  sink  and  the  pump.  A  partition 
beginning  at  the  opposite  wall  seemed  de 
signed  to  divide  the  house  in  two,  but  it 
stopped  before  reaching  the  stove  and  did  not 
begin  again  beyond  it,  in  such  fashion  that 
these  divisions  of  the  only  room  were  each 
enclosed  on  three  sides  and  looked  like  a  stage 
setting — that  conventional  type  of  scene 
where  the  audience  are  invited  to  imagine 
that  two  distinct  apartments  exist  although 
they  look  into  both  at  once. 

In  one  of  these  compartments  the  father 
and  mother  had  their  bed;  Maria  and  Alma 
Rose  in  the  other.  A  steep  stairway  ascended 
from  a  corner  to  the  loft  where  the  boys  slept 
in  the  summer-time ;  with  the  coming  of  winter 
they  moved  their  bed  down  and  enjoyed  the 
warmth  of  the  stove  with  the  rest  of  the 
family. 

Hanging  upon  the  wall  were  the  illustrated 
calendars  of  shopkeepers  in  Roberval  and  Chi- 
coutimi;  a  picture  of  the  infant  Jesus  in  his 
mother's  arms — a  rosy-faced  Jesus  with  great 
blue  eyes,  holding  out  his  chubby  hands;  a 
representation  of  some  unidentified  saint  look 
ing  rapturously  heavenward;  the  first  page  of 

[32] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

the  Christmas  number  of  a  Quebec  newspa 
per,  filled  with  stars  big  as  moons  an^-angels 
flying  with  folded  wings.  |/v 

"Were  you  a  good  girl  while  I  was  away, 
Alma  Rose?" 

It  was  the  mother  who  replied: — "Alma 
Rose  was  not  too  naughty;  but  Telesphore 
has  been  a  perfect  torment  to  me.  It  is  not  so 
much  that  he  does  what  is  wrong;  but  the 
things  he  says!  One  might  suppose  that  the 
boy  had  not  all  his  wits." 

Telesphore  busied  himself  with  the  dog- 
harness  and  made  believe  not  to  hear.  Young 
Telesphore's  depravities  supplied  this  house 
hold  with  its  only  domestic  tragedy.  To  sat 
isfy  her  own  mind  and  give  him  a  proper  con 
viction  of  besetting  sin  his  mother  had  fash 
ioned  for  herself  a  most  involved  kind  of 
polytheism,  had  peopled  the  world  with  evil 
spirits  and  good  who  influenced  bim  alter 
nately  to  err  or  to  repent.  The  boy  had  come 
to  regard  himself  as  a  mere  battleground 
where  devils  who  were  very  sly,  and  angels  of 
excellent  purpose  but  little  experience,  waged 
endless  unequal  warfare. 

Gloomily   would   he   mutter   before   the 

[33] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

empty  preserve  jar: — "It  was  the  Demon 
of  gluttony  who  tempted  me." 

Returning  from  some  escapade  with  torn 
and  muddy  clothes  he  would  anticipate  re 
proach  with  his  explanation: — "The  Demon 
of  disobedience  lured  me  into  that.  Beyond 
doubt  it  was  he."  With  the  same  breath 
asserting  indignation  at  being  so  misled,  and 
protesting  the  blamelessness  of  his  intentions. 

"But  he  must  not  be  allowed  to  come  back, 
eh,  mother!  He  must  not  be  allowed  to  come 
back,  this  bad  spirit.  I  will  take  father's  gun 
and  I  will  shoot  him  .  .  ." 

"You  cannot  shoot  devils  with  a  gun,"  ob 
jected  his  mother.  "But  when  you  feel  the 
temptation  coming,  seize  your  rosary  and  say 
your  prayers." 

Telesphore  did  not  dare  to  gainsay  this; 
but  he  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  The  gun 
seemed  to  him  both  the  surer  and  the  more 
amusing  way,  and  he  was  accustomed  to  pic 
ture  to  himself  a  tremendous  duel,  a  lingering 
slaughter  from  which  he  would  emerge  with 
out  spot  or  blemish,  forever  set  free  from  the 
wiles  of  the  Evil  One. 

Samuel  Chapdelaine  came  into  the  house 

[34] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

and  supper  was  served.  The  sign  of  the  cross 
around  the  table ;  lips  moving  in  a  silent  Bene- 
dicite,  which  Telesphore  and  Alma  Rose  re 
peated  aloud;  again  the  sign  of  the  cross;  the 
noise  of  chairs  and  bench  drawn  in;  spoons 
clattering  on  plates.  To  Maria  it  was  as 
though  since  her  absence  she  was  giving  at 
tention  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  to  these 
sounds  and  movements;  that  they  possessed 
a  different  significance  from  movements  and 
sounds  elsewhere,  and  invested  with  some  pe 
culiar  quality  of  sweetness  and  peace  all  that 
happened  in  that  house  far  off  in  the  woods. 

Supper  was  nearly  at  an  end  when  a  foot 
step  sounded  without;  Ghien  pricked  up  his 
ears  but  gave  no  growl. 

"A  visitor,"  announced  mother  Chap- 
delaine,  "Eutrope  Gagnon  has  come  over  to 


see  us." 


It  was  an  easy  guess,  as  Eutrope  Gagnon 
was  their  only  neighbour.  The  year  before  he 
had  taken  up  land  two  miles  away,  with  his 
brother;  the  brother  had  gone  to  the  shanties 
for  the  winter,  and  he  was  left  alone  in  the 
cabin  they  had  built  of  charred  logs.  He  ap 
peared  on  the  threshold,  lantern  in  hand. 

[35] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"Greeting  to  each  and  all,"  was  the  saluta 
tion  as  he  pulled  off  his  woollen  cap.  "A  fine 
night,  and  there  is  still  a  crust  on  the  snow; 
as  the  walking  was  good  I  thought  that  I 
would  drop  in  this  evening  to  find  out  if  you 
were  back." 

Although  he  came  to  see  Maria,  as  all 
knew,  it  was  to  the  father  of  the  house  that  he 
directed  his  remarks,  partly  through  shyness, 
partly  out  of  deference  to  the  manners  of  the 
country.  He  took  the  chair  that  was  offered 
him. 

"The  weather  is  mild;  if  it  misses  turning 
wet  it  will  be  by  very  little.  One  can  feel  that 
the  spring  rains  are  not  far  off  .  .  ." 

It  was  the  orthodox  beginning  to  one  of 
those  talks  among  country  folk  which  are  like 
an  interminable  song,  full  of  repetitions, 
each  speaker  agreeing  with  the  words  last 
uttered  and  adding  more  to  the  same  effect. 
And  naturally  the  theme  was  the  Canadian's 
never-ending  plaint;  his  protest,  falling  short 
of  actual  revolt,  against  the  heavy  burden 
of  the  long  winter. 

"The  beasts  have  been  in  the  stable  since 
the  end  of  October  and  the  barn  is  just  about 

[36] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINB 

empty,"  said  mother  Chapdelaine.  "Unless 
spring  comes  soon  I  don't  know  what  we  are 
going  to  do. " 

"Three  weeks  at  least  before  they  can  be 
turned  out  to  pasture." 

"A  horse,  three  cows,  a  pig  and  the  sheep, 
without  speaking  of  the  fowls;  it  takes  some 
thing  to  feed  them!"  this  from  Tit'Be  with 
an  air  of  grown-up  wisdom. 

He  smoked  and  talked  with  the  men  now 
by  virtue  of  his  fourteen  years,  his  broad 
shoulders  and  his  knowledge  of  husbandry. 
Eight  years  ago  he  had  begun  to  care  for  the 
stock,  and  to  replenish  the  store  of  wood  for 
the  house  with  the  aid  of  his  little  sled. 
Somewhat  later  he  had  learned  to  call  Heulle! 
Heulle!  very  loudly  behind  the  thin-flanked 
cows,  and  Hue!  Dial  Harriet  when  the  horses 
were  ploughing;  to  manage  a  hay-fork  and  to 
build  a  rail-fence.  These  two  years  he  had 
taken  turn  beside  his  father  with  ax  and 
scythe,  driven  the  big  wood-sleigh  over  the 
hard  snow,  sown  and  reaped  on  his  own 
responsibility;  and  thus  it  was  that  no  one 
disputed  his  right  freely  to  express  an 
opinion  and  to  smoke  incessantly  the  strong 
[37] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

leaf-tobacco.  His  face  was  still  smooth  as  a 
child's,  with  immature  features  and  guileless 
eyes,  and  one  not  knowing  him  would 
probably  have  been  surprised  to  hear  him 
speak  with  all  the  deliberation  of  an  older 
and  experienced  man,  and  to  see  him  ever 
lastingly  charging  his  wooden  pipe;  but  in 
the  Province  of  Quebec  the  boys  are  looked 
upon  as  men  when  they  undertake  men's 
work,  and  as  to  their  precocity  in  smoking 
there  is  always  the  excellent  excuse  that  it 
affords  some  protection  in  summer  against 
the  attacking  swarms  of  black-flies,  mos- 
(railos  and  sand-flies. 

"How  nice  it  would  be  to  live  in  a  country 
where  there  is  hardly  any  winter,  and  where 
the  earth  makes  provision  for  man  and  beast. 
Up  here  man  himself,  by  dint  of  work,  must 
care  for  his  animals  and  his  land.  If  we  did 
not  have  Esdras  and  Da'Be  earning  good 
wages  in  the  woods  how  could  we  get  along?" 

"But  the  soil  is  rich  in  these  parts,"  said 
Eutrope  Gagnon. 

"The  soil  is  good  but  one  must  battle  for 
it  with  the  forest;  and  to  live  at  all  you  must 
watch  every  copper,  labour  from  morning  to 

[38] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

night,  and  do  everything  yourself  because 
there  is  no  one  near  to  lend  a  hand." 

Mother  Ghapdelaine  ended  with  a  sigh. 
Her  thoughts  were  ever  fondly  revisiting  the 
older  parishes  where  the  land  has  long  been 
cleared  and  cultivated,  and  where  the  houses 
are  neighbourly — her  lost  paradise. 

Her  husband  clenched  his  fists  and  shook 
his  head  with  an  obstinate  gesture.  "Only 
you  wait  a  few  months  .  .  .  When  the  boys 
are  back  from  the  woods  we  shall  set  to 
work,  they  two,  Tit'Be  and  I,  and  presently 
we  shah1  have  our  land  cleared.  With  four 
good  men  ax  in  hand  and  not  afraid  of  work 
things  will  go  quickly,  even  in  the  hard 
timber.  Two  years  from  now  there  will  be 
grain  harvested,  and  pasturage  that  will 
support  a  good  herd  of  cattle.  I  tell  you 
that  we  are  going  to  make  land." 

"  Make  land ! "  Rude  phrase  of  the  country, 
summing  up  in  two  words  all  the  heart 
breaking  labour  that  transforms  the  incult 
woods,  barren  of  sustenance,  to  smiling  fields, 
ploughed  and  sown.  Samuel  Chapdelaine's 
eyes  flamed  with  enthusiasm  and  determina 
tion  as  he  spoke. 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

For  this  was  the  passion  of  his  life;  the 
passion  of  a  man  whose  soul  was  in  the  clear 
ing,  not  the  tilling  of  the  earth.  Five  times 
since  boyhood  had  he  taken  up  wild  land, 
built  a  house,  a  stable  and  a  barn,  wrested 
from  the  unbroken  forest  a  comfortable  farm; 
and  five  times  he  had  sold  out  to  begin  it  all 
again  farther  north,  suddenly  losing  interest; 
energy  and  ambition  vanishing  once  the 
first  rough  work  was  done,  when  neighbours 
appeared  and  the  countryside  began  to  be 
opened  up  and  inhabited.  Some  there  were 
who  entered  into  his  feelings;  others  praised 
the  courage  but  thought  little  of  the  wisdom, 
and  such  were  fond  of  saying  that  if  good 
sense  had  led  him  to  stay  in  one  place  he 
and  his  would  now  be  at  their  ease. 

"At  their  ease  ..."  0  dread  God  of  the 
Scriptures,  worshipped  by  these  countryfolk 
of  Quebec  without  a  quibble  or  a  doubt,  who 
hast  condemned  man  to  earn  his  bread  in 
the  sweat  of  his  face,  canst  Thou  for  a  mo 
ment  smooth  the  awful  frown  from  Thy  fore 
head  when  Thou  art  told  that  certain  of  these 
Thy  creatures  have  escaped  the  doom,  and 
live  at  their  ease? 

[40] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"At  their  ease  ..."  Truly  to  know  what 
it  means  one  must  have  toiled  bitterly  from 
dawn  to  dark  with  back  and  hands  and  feet, 
and  the  children  of  the  soil  are  those  who 
have  best  attained  the  knowledge.  It  means 
the  burden  lifted;  the  heavy  burden  of  labour 
and  of  care.  It  means  leave  to  rest,  the  which, 
even  if  it  be  unused,  is  a  new  mercy  every 
moment.  To  the  old  it  means  so  much  of 
the  pride  of  life  as  no  one  would  deny  them, 
the  late  revelation  of  unknown  delights,  an 
hour  of  idleness,  a  distant  journey,  a  dainty 
or  a  purchase  indulged  in  without  anxious 
thought,  the  hundred  and  one  things  de 
sirable  that  a  competence  assures. 

So  constituted  is  the  heart  of  man  that 
most  of  those  who  have  paid  the  ransom 
and  won  liberty — ease — have  in  the  winning 
of  it  created  their  own  incapacity  for  enjoy 
ing  the  conquest,  and  toil  on  till  death;  it 
is  the  others,  the  ill-endowed  or  the  unlucky, 
who  have  been  unable  to  overcome  fortune 
and  escape  their  slavery,  to  whom  the  state  of 
ease  has  all  those  charms  of  the  inaccessible. 

It  may  be  that  the  Chapdelaines  so  were 
thinking,  and  each  in  his  own  fashion; 
[41] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

the  father  with  the  unconquerable  optimism 
of  a  man  who  knows  himself  strong  and  be 
lieves  himself  wise ;  the  mother  with  a  gentle 
resignation;  the  others,  the  younger  ones, 
in  a  less  definite  way  and  without  bitterness, 
seeing  before  them  a  long  life  in  which'  they 
could  not  miss  attaining  happiness.  \/ 

Maria  stole  an  occasional  glance  at  Eu- 
trope  Gagnon,  but  she  quickly  turned  away, 
for  she  always  surprised  his  humbly  worship 
ping  eyes.  For  a  year  she  had  become  used 
to  his  frequent  visits,  nor  felt  displeasure  when 
every  Sunday  evening  added  to  the  family 
circle  this  brown  face  that  was  continually  so 
patient  and  good-humoured;  but  the  short  ab 
sence  of  a  month  had  not  left  things  the  same, 
for  she  had  brought  home  to  the  fireside  an 
undefined  feeling  that  a  page  of  her  life  was 
turned,  in  which  he  would  have  no  share. 

The  ordinary  subjects  of  conversation  ex 
hausted,  they  played  cards:  quatre-sept  and 
boeuf;  then  Eutrope  looked  at  his  big  silver 
watch  and  said  that  it  was  time  to  be  going. 
His  lantern  lit,  the  good-byes  said,  he  halted 
on  the  threshold  for  a  moment  to  observe 
the  night. 

[42] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"It  is  raining!"  he  exclaimed. 

His  hosts  made  toward  the  door  to  see 
for  themselves;  the  rain  had  in  truth  begun, 
a  spring  rain  with  great  drops  that  fell 
heavily,  under  which  the  snow  was  already 
softening  and  melting. 

"The  sou'east  has  taken  hold,"  announced 
the  elder  Chapdelaine.  "Now  we  can  say 
that  the  whiter  is  practically  over." 

Everyone  had  his  own  way  of  expressing 
relief  and  delight;  but  it  was  Maria  who 
stood  longest  by  the  door,  hearkening  to  the 
sweet  patter  of  the  rain,  watching  the  in 
distinct  movement  of  cloud  in  the  dark  sky 
above  the  darker  mass  of  the  forest,  breath 
ing  the  mild  air  that  came  from  the  south. 

"Spring  is  not  far  ...  Spring  is  not 
far  .  .  ." 

In  her  heart  she  felt  that  never  since  the 
earth  began  was  there  a  springtime  like  this 
springtime  to-be. 


[43] 


CHAPTER  III 
FRANCOIS  PASSES  BY 


One  morning  three  days  later. 


CHAPTER  III 
FRANCOIS  PASSES  BY 

NE  morning  three  days  later,  on 
opening  the  door,  Maria's  ear 
caught  a  sound  that  made  her 
stand  motionless  and  listening. 
The  distant  and  continuous  thun- 

der  was  the  voice  of  wild  waters, 

silenced  all  winter  by  the  frost. 

"The  ice  is  going  out,"  she  announced  to 
those  within.  "You  can  hear  the  falls." 

This  set  them  all  talking  once  again  of  the 
opening  season,  and  of  the  work  soon  to  be 
commenced.  The  month  of  May  came  in  with 
alternate  warm  rains  and  fine  sunny  days 
which  gradually  conquered  the  accumulated 
ice  and  snow  of  the  long  winter.  Low  stumps 
and  roots  were  beginning  to  appear,  although 
the  shade  of  close-set  cypress  and  fir,  pro 
longed  the  death-struggle  of  the  perishingsnow- 
drifts;  the  roads  became  quagmires;  wherever 
the  brown  mosses  were  uncovered  they  were 
full  of  water  as  a  sponge.  In  other  lands  it 
was  already  spring;  vigorously  the  sap  was 

[47] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

running,  buds  were  bursting  and  presently 
leaves  would  unfold;  but  the  soil  of  far 
northern  Canada  must  be  rid  of  one  chill  and 
heavy  mantle  before  clothing  itself  afresh  in 
green. 

A  dozen  times  in  the  course  of  the  day 
Maria  and  her  mother  opened  the  window 
to  feel  the  softness  of  the  air,  listen  to  the 
tinkle  of  water  running  from  the  last  drifts  on 
higher  slopes,  or  hearken  to  the  mighty  roar 
telling  that  the  exulting  Peribonka  was  free, 
and  hurrying  to  the  lake  a  freight  of  ice-floes 
from  the  remote  north. 

Chapdelaine  seated  himself  that  evening 
on  the  door-step  for  his  smoke;  a  stirring  of 
memory  brought  the  remark: — "Francois 
will  soon  be  passing.  He  said  that  perhaps 
he  would  come  to  see  us."  Maria  replied 
with  a  scarce  audible  "Yes,"  and  blessed 
the  shadow  hiding  her  face. 

Ten  days  later  he  came,  long  after  night 
fall.  The  women  were  alone  in  the  house 
with  Tit'B6  and  the  children,  the  father 
having  gone  for  seed-grain  to  Honfleur 
whence  he  would  only  return  on  the  morrow. 
Telesphore  and  Alma  Rose  were  asleep, 

[48] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Tit'Be  was  having  a  last  pipe  before  the 
family  prayer,  when  Chien  barked  several 
times  and  got  up  to  sniff  at  the  closed  door. 
Then  two  light  taps  were  heard.  The  visitor 
waited  for  the  invitation  before  he  entered 
and  stood  before  them. 

His  excuses  for  so  late  a  call  were  made 
without  touch  of  awkwardness.  "We  are 
camped  at  the  end  of  the  portage  above  the 
rapids.  The  tent  had  to  be  pitched  and 
things  put  in  order  to  make  the  Belgians 
comfortable  for  the  night.  When  I  set  out 
I  knew  it  was  hardly  the  hour  for  a  call  and 
that  the  paths  through  the  woods  must  be 
pretty  bad.  But  I  started  all  the  same,  and 
when  I  saw  your  light  .  ." 

His  high  Indian  boots  were  caked  with 
mud  to  the  knee;  he  breathed  a  little  deeply 
between  words,  like  a  man  who  has  been 
running;  but  his  keen  eyes  were  quietly 
confident. 

"Only  Tit'Be  has  changed,"  said  he. 
"When  you  left  Mistassini  he  was  but  so 
high  ..."  With  a  hand  he  indicated  the 
stature  of  a  child.  Mother  Chapdelaine's 
face  was  bright  with  interest;  doubly  pleased 
[49] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

to  receive  a  visitor  and  at  the  chance  of  talk 
ing  about  old  times. 

"  Nor  have  you  altered  in  these  seven  years; 
not  a  bit;  as  for  Maria  .  .  .  surely  you  find 
a  difference!" 

He  gazed  at  Maria  with  something  of 
wonder  hi  his  eyes.  "You  see  that  .  .  .  that 
I  saw  her  the  other  day  at  Peribonka." 
Tone  and  manner  showed  that  the  meeting 
of  a  fortnight  ago  had  been  allowed  to  blot 
the  remoter  days  from  his  recollection.  But 
since  the  talk  was  of  her  he  ventured  an 
appraising  glance. 

Her  young  vigour  and  health,  the  beautiful 
heavy  hair  and  sunburnt  neck  of  a  country 
girl,  the  frank  honesty  of  eye  and  gesture, 
all  these  things,  thought  he,  were  possessions 
of  the  child  of  seven  years  ago;  and  twice 
or  thrice  he  shook  his  head  as  though  to 
say  that,  in  truth,  she  had  not  changed. 
But  the  consciousness  too  was  there  that  he, 
if  not  she,  had  changed,  for  the  sight  of  her 
before  him  took  strange  hold  upon  his  heart. 

Maria's  smile  was  a  little  timid,  but  soon 
she  dared  to  raise  her  eyes  and  look  at  him 
in  turn.  Assuredly  a  handsome  fellow;  comely 

[50] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

of  body,  revealing  so  much  of  supple  strength; 
comely  of  face  in  well-cut  feature  and  fear 
less  eye  ...  To  herself  she  said  with  some 
surprise  that  she  had  not  thought  him  thus — 
more  forward  perhaps,  talking  freely  and 
rather  positively — but  now  he  scarcely  spoke 
at  all  and  everything  about  him  had  an  air 
of  perfect  simplicity.  Doubtless  it  was  his 
expression  that  had  given  her  this  idea,  and 
his  bold  straightforward  manner. 

Mother  Chapdelaine  took  up  her  question 
ing: — "And  so  you  sold  the  farm  when  your 
father  died,  Franc. ois?" 

"Yes,  I  sold  everything./  I  was  never  a 
very  good  hand  at  farming,  you  know. 
Working  in  the  shanties,  trapping,  making 
a  little  money  from  time  to  time  as  a  guide 
or  in  trade  with  the  Indians,  that  is  the  life 
for  me;  but  to  scratch  away  at  the  same 
fields  from  one  year's  end  to  another,  and 
stay  there  forever,  I  would  not  have  been 
able  to  stick  to  that  all  my  life;  I  would 
have  felt  like  a  cow  tethered  to  a  stake." 

"  That  is  so,  some  men  are  made  that  way. 
Samuel,  for  example,  and  you,  and  many 
another.  It  seems  as  if  the  woods  had  some 
[51] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

magic  for  you  ..."  She  shook  her  head 
and  looked  at  him  in  wonderment.  "Frozen 
in  winter,  devoured  by  flies  in  summer; 
living  in  a  tent  on  the  snow,  or  in  a  log  cabin 
full  of  chinks  that  the  wind  blows  through, 
you  like  that  better  than  spending  your  life 
on  a  good  farm,  near  shops  and  houses. 
Just  think  of  it;  a  nice  bit  of  level  land 
without  a  stump  or  a  hollow,  a  good  warm 
house  all  papered  inside,  fat  cattle  pasturing 
or  in  the  stable;  for  people  well  stocked  with 
implements  and  who  keep  their  health, 
could  there  be  anything  better  or  happier?" 

Frangois  Paradis  looked  at  the  floor  with 
out  making  answer,  perhaps  a  trifle  ashamed 
of  these  wrong-headed  tastes  of  his.  "A  fine 
life  for  those  who  are  fond  of  the  land," 
he  said  at  last,  "but  I  should  never  have 
been  content. " 

It  was  the  everlasting  conflict  between 
the  types:  pioneer  and  farmer,  the  peasant 
from  France  who  brought  to  new  lands  his 
ideals  of  ordered  life  and  contented  im 
mobility,  and  that  other  in  whom  the  vast 
wilderness  awakened  distant  atavistic  in 
stincts  for  wandering  and  adventure.  / 

152] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Accustomed  for  fifteen  years  to  hear  her 
mother  vaunting  the  idyllic  happiness  of  the 
farmer  in  the  older  settlements,  Maria  had 
very  naturally  come  to  believe  that  she  was 
of  the  same  mind;  now  she  was  no  longer 
certain  about  it.  But  whoever  was  right  she 
well  knew  that  not  one  of  the  well-to-do 
young  fellows  at  St.  Prime,  with  his  Sunday 
coat  of  fine  cloth  and  his  fur  collar,  was  the 
equal  of  FranQois  Paradis  in  muddy  boots 
and  faded  woollen  jersey. 

Replying  to  further  questions  he  spoke  of 
his  journeys  on  the  North  Shore  and  to  the 
head-waters  of  the  rivers — of  it  all  very 
naturally  and  with  a  shade  of  hesitation, 
scarcely  knowing  what  to  tell  and  what  to 
leave  out,  for  the  people  he  was  speaking 
to  lived  in  much  the  same  kind  of  country 
and  their  manner  of  life  was  little  different. 

"Up  there  the  winters  are  harder  yet  than 
here,  and  still  longer.  We  have  only  dogs  to 
draw  our  sleds,  fine  strong  dogs,  but  bad- 
tempered  and  often  half  wild,  and  we  feed 
them  but  once  a  day,  in  the  evening,  on 
frozen  fish.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  are  settlements, 
but  almost  no  farming;  the  men  live  by  trap- 

[58] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

ping  and  fishing  .  .  .  No,  I  never  had  any 
difficulty  with  the  Indians;  I  always  got  on 
very  well  with  them.  I  know  nearly  all  those 
on  the  Mistassini  and  this  river,  for  they  used 
to  come  to  our  place  before  my  father  died. 
You  see  he  often  went  trapping  in  winter  when 
he  was  not  in  the  shanties,  and  one  season 
when  he  was  at  the  head  of  the  Riviere  aux 
Foins,  quite  alone,  a  tree  that  he  was  cutting 
for  firewood  slipped  in  falling,  and  it  was  the 
Indians  who  found  him  by  chance  next  day, 
crushed  and  half-frozen  though  the  weather 
was  mild.  He  was  in  their  game  preserve, 
and  they  might  very  well  have  pretended 
not  to  see  him  and  have  left  him  to  die  there; 
but  they  put  him  on  their  toboggan,  brought 
him  to  their  camp,  and  looked  after  him. 
You  knew  my  father:  a  rough  man  who 
often  took  a  glass,  but  just  in  his  dealings, 
and  with  a  good  name  for  doing  that  sort  of 
thing  himself.  So  when  he  parted  with  these 
Indians  he  told  them  to  stop  and  see  him  in 
the  spring  when  they  would  be  coming  down 
to  !Pointe  Bleue  with  their  furs: — 'Frangois 
Paradis  of  Mistassini,'  said  he  to  them, 
'will  not  forget  what  you  have  done  .  .  . 

[54] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Frangois  Paradis.'  And  when  they  came  in 
spring  while  running  the  river  he  looked 
after  them  well  and  every  one  carried  away 
a  new  ax,  a  fine  woollen  blanket  and  tobacco 
for  six  months.  Always  after  that  they  used 
to  pay  us  a  visit  in  the  spring,  and  father 
had  the  pick  of  their  best  skins  for  less  than 
the  companies'  buyers  had  to  pay.  When  he 
died  they  treated  me  in  the  same  way  be 
cause  I  was  his  son  and  bore  the  same  name, 
Frangois  Paradis.  With  more  capital  I 
could  have  made  a  good  bit  of  money  in 
this  trade — a  good  bit  of  money." 

He  seemed  a  little  uncomfortable  at  having 
talked  so  much,  and  arose  to  go.  "We  shall 
be  coming  down  in  a  few  weeks  and  I  will  try 
to  stay  a  little  longer,"  he  said  as  he  de 
parted.  "It  is  good  to  see  you  again." 

On  the  door-step  his  keen  eyes  sought  in 
Maria's  for  something  that  he  might  carry 
into  the  depth  of  the  green  woods  whither  he 
was  bent;  but  they  found  no  message.  In 
her  maidenly  simplicity  she  feared  to  show 
herself  too  bold,  and  very  resolutely  she 
kept  her  glance  lowered,  like  the  young  girls 
with  richer  parents  who  return  from  the 
[55] 


MARIA          GHAPDELAINE 

convents  in  Chicoutimi  trained  to  look  on 
the  world  with  a  superhuman  demureness. 

Scarcely  was  Francois  gone  when  the  two 
women  and  Tit'Be  knelt  for  the  evening 
prayer.  The  mother  led  in  a  high  voice, 
speaking  very  rapidly,  the  others  answering 
in  a  low  murmur.  Five  Paters,  five  Aves, 
the  Acts,  and  then  a  long  responsive  Litany. 

"Holy  Mary,  mother  of  God,  pray  for  us 
now  and  at  the  hour  of  our  death  ..." 

"  Immaculate  heart  of  Jesus,  have  pity  on 
us  .  .  ." 

The  window  was  open  and  through  it  came 
the  distant  roaring  of  the  falls.  The  first 
mosquitos  of  the  spring,  attracted  by  the 
light,  entered  likewise  and  the  slender  music 
of  their  wings  filled  the  house.  Tit'Be  went 
and  closed  the  window,  then  fell  on  his  knees 
again  beside  the  others. 

"Great  St.  Joseph,  pray  for  us  ..." 

"St.  Isidore,  pray  for  us  .  .  ." 

The  prayers  over,  mother  Chapdelaine 
sighed  out  contentedly: — "How  pleasant  it 
is  to  have  a  caller,  when  we  see  hardly  any 
one  but  Eutrope  Gagnon  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end.  But  that  is  what  comes  of 

[56] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

living  so  far  away  in  the  woods  .  .  .  Now, 
when  I  was  a  girl  at  St.  Gedeon,  the  house 
was  full  of  visitors  nearly  every  Saturday 
evening  and  all  Sunday:  Adelard  Saint- 
Onge  who  courted  me  for  such  a  long  time; 
Wilfrid  Tremblay,  the  merchant,  who  had 
nice  manners  and  was  always  trying  to  speak 
as  the  French  do;  many  others  as  well — 
not  counting  your  father  who  came  to  see 
us  almost  every  night  for  three  years,  while 
I  was  making  up  my  mind  ..." 

Three  years!  Maria  thought  to  herself 
that  she  had  only  seen  Frangois  Paradis 
twice  since  she  was  a  child,  and  she  felt 
ashamed  at  the  beating  of  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  IV 
WILD  LAND 


After  a  few  chilly  days 


CHAPTER  IV 
WILD  LAND 

FTER  a  few  chilly  days,  June 
suddenly  brought  veritable  spring 
weather.  A  blazing  sun  warmed 
field  and  forest,  the  lingering 
patches  of  snow  vanished  even 
in  the  deep  shade  of  the  woods; 
the  Peribonka  rose  and  rose  between  its 
rocky  banks  until  the  alders  and  the  roots 
of  the  nearer  spruces  were  drowned;  in  the 
roads  the  mud  was  incredibly  deep.  The 
Canadian  soil  rid  itself  of  the  last  traces  of 
winter  with  a  semblance  of  mad  haste,  as 
though  in  dread  of  another  winter  already  on 
the  way. 

Esdras  and  Da'Be  returned  from  the  shan 
ties  where  they  had  worked  all  the  winter. 
Esdras  was  the  eldest  of  the  family,  a  tall 
fellow  with  a  huge  frame,  his  face  bronzed, 
his  hair  black;  the  low  forehead  and  promi 
nent  chin  gave  him  a  Neronian  profile,  domi 
neering,  not  without  a  suggestion  of  brutality; 
but  he  spoke  softly,  measuring  his  words,  and 

[61] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

was  endlessly  patient.  In  face  alone  had  he 
anything  of  the  tyrant;  it  was  as  though  the 
long  rigours  of  the  climate  and  the  fine  sense 
and  good  humour  of  the  race  had  refined  his 
heart  to  a  simplicity  and  kindliness  that  his 
formidable  aspect  seemed  to  deny. 

Da'Be,  also  tall,  was  less  heavily  built  and 
more  lively  and  merry.  He  was  like  his  father. 

The  married  couple  had  given  their  first 
children,  Esdras  and  Maria,  fine,  high-sound 
ing,  sonorous  names;  but  they  had  apparently 
wearied  of  these  solemnities,  for  the  next 
two  children  never  heard  their  real  names 
pronounced;  always  had  they  been  called  by 
the  affectionate  diminutives  of  childhood, 
Da'Be  and  Tit'Be.  With  the  last  pair,  how 
ever,  there  had  been  a  return  to  the  earlier 
ceremonious  manner: — Telesphore  .  .  .  Alma 
Rose. 

"When  the  boys  get  back  we  are  going  to 
make  land,"  the  father  had  promised.  And, 
with  the  help  of  Edwige  Legare,  their  hired 
man,  they  set  about  the  task. 

In  the  Province  of  Quebec  there  is  much 
uncertainty  in  the  spelling  and  the  use  of 
names.  A  scattered  people  in  a  huge  half- 

[62] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

wild  country,  unlettered  for  the  most  part 
and  with  no  one  to  turn  to  for  counsel  but 
the  priests,  is  apt  to  pay  attention  only  to 
the  sound  of  names,  caring  nothing  about 
their  appearance  when  written  or  the  sex 
to  which  they  pertain.  Pronunciation  has 
naturally  varied  in  one  mouth  or  another, 
in  this  family  or  that,  and  when  a  formal 
occasion  calls  for  writing,  each  takes  leave 
to  spell  his  baptismal  name  in  his  own  way, 
without  a  passing  thought  that  there  may 
be  a  canonical  form.  Borrowings  from  other 
languages  have  added  to  the  uncertainties 
of  orthography  and  gender.  Individuals  sign 
indifferently,  Denise,  Denije  or  Deneije; 
Conrad  or  Courade;  men  bear  such  names 
as  Hermenegilde,  Aglae,  Edwige. 

Edwige  Legare  had  worked  for  the  Chap- 
delaines  these  eleven  summers.  That  is  to 
say,  for  wages  of  twenty  dollars  a  month  he 
was  in  harness  each  day  from  four  in  the 
morning  till  nine  at  night  at  any  and  every 
job  that  called  for  doing,  bringing  to  it  a  sort 
of  frenzied  and  inexhaustible  enthusiasm; 
for  he  was  one  of  those  men  incapable  by 
his  nature  of  working  save  at  the  full  pitch 

[63] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

of  strength  and  energy,  in  a  series  of  berserk 
rages.  Short  and  broad,  his  eyes  were  the 
brightest  blue — a  thing  rare  in  Quebec — at 
once  piercing  and  guileless,  set  in  a  visage 
the  colour  of  clay  that  always  showed  cruel 
traces  of  the  razor,  topped  by  hair  of  nearly 
the  same  shade.  With  a  pride  in  his  appear 
ance  that  was  hard  to  justify  he  shaved 
himself  two  or  three  times  a  week,  always  in 
the  evening,  before  the  bit  of  looking-glass 
that  hung  over  the  pump  and  by  the  feeble 
light  of  the  little  lamp — driving  the  steel 
through  his  stiff  beard  with  groans  that 
showed  what  it  cost  him  in  labour  and 
anguish.  Clad  in  shirt  and  trousers  of  brown 
ish  homespun,  wearing  huge  dusty  boots, 
he  was  from  head  to  heel  of  a  piece  with  the 
soil,  nor  was  there  aught  in  his  face  to  re 
deem  the  impression  of  rustic  uncouthness. 
Chapdelaine,  his  three  sons  and  man,  pro 
ceeded  then  to  "make  land."  The  forest 
still  pressed  hard  upon  the  buildings  they 
had  put  up  a  few  years  earlier:  the  little 
square  house,  the  barn  of  planks  that  gaped 
apart,  the  stable  built  of  blackened  logs  and 
chinked  with  rags  and  earth.  Between  the 

[64] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

scanty  fields  of  their  clearing  and  the  darkly 
encircling  woods  lay  a  broad  stretch  which 
the  ax  had  but  half-heartedly  attacked.  A 
few  living  trees  had  been  cut  for  timber,  and 
the  dead  ones,  sawn  and  split,  fed  the  great 
stove  for  a  whole  winter;  but  the  place  was 
a  rough  tangle  of  stumps  and  interlacing 
roots,  of  fallen  trees  too  far  rotted  to  burn, 
of  others  dead  but  still  erect  amid  the  alder 
scrub. 

Thither  the  five  men  made  their  way  one 
morning  and  set  to  work  at  once,  without  a 
word,  for  every  man's  task  had  been  settled 
beforehand. 

The  father  and  Da'Be  took  their  stand  face 
to  face  on  either  side  of  a  tree,  and  their  axes, 
helved  with  birch,  began  to  swing  in  rhythm. 
At  first  each  hewed  a  deep  notch,  chopping 
steadily  at  the  same  spot  for  some  seconds, 
then  the  ax  rose  swiftly  and  fell  obliquely  on 
the  trunk  a  foot  higher  up;  at  every  stroke  a 
great  chip  flew,  thick  as  the  hand,  splitting 
away  with  the  grain.  When  the  cuts  were 
nearly  meeting,  one  stopped  and  the  other 
slowed  down,  leaving  his  ax  in  the  wood  for 
a  moment  at  every  blow;  the  mere  strip,  by 

[65] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

some  miracle  still  holding  the  tree  erect, 
yielded  at  last,  the  trunk  began  to  lean  and 
the  two  axmen  stepped  back  a  pace  and 
watched  it  fall,  shouting  at  the  same  instant 
a  warning  of  the  danger. 

It  was  then  the  turn  of  Edwige  Legare  and 
Esdras;  when  the  tree  was  not  too  heavy 
each  took  an  end,  clasping  their  strong  hands 
beneath  the  trunk,  and  then  raised  them 
selves — backs  straining,  arms  cracking  under 
the  stress — and  carried  it  to  the  nearest 
heap  with  short  unsteady  steps,  getting  over 
the  fallen  timber  with  stumbling  effort. 
When  the  burden  seemed  too  heavy,  Tit'Be 
came  forward  leading  Charles  Eugene  drag 
ging  a  tug-bar  with  a  strong  chain;  this  was 
passed  round  the  trunk  and  fastened,  the 
horse  bent  his  back,  and  with  the  muscles 
of  his  hindquarters  standing  out,  hauled 
away  the  tree  which  scraped  along  the  stumps 
and  crushed  the  young  alders  to  the  ground. 

At  noon  Maria  came  out  to  the  door-step 
and  gave  a  long  call  to  tell  them  that  dinner 
was  ready.  Slowly  they  straightened  up 
among  the  stumps,  wiping  away  with  the 
backs  of  their  hands  the  drops  of  sweat  that 

[66] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

ran  into  their  eyes,  and  made  their  way  to 
the  house. 

Already  the  pea-soup  smoked  in  the  plates. 
The  five  men  set  themselves  at  table  without 
haste,  as  if  sensation  were  somewhat  dulled 
by  the  heavy  work;  but  as  they  caught  their 
breath  a  great  hunger  awoke,  and  soon  they 
began  to  eat  with  keen  appetite.  The  two 
women  waited  upon  them,  filling  the  empty 
plates,  carrying  about  the  great  dish  of  pork 
and  boiled  potatoes,  pouring  out  the  hot 
tea.  When  the  meat  had  vanished  the  diners 
filled  their  saucers  with  molasses  in  which 
they  soaked  large  pieces  of  bread;  hunger 
was  quickly  appeased,  because  they  had 
eaten  fast  and  without  a  word,  and  then 
plates  were  pushed  back  and  chairs  tilted 
with  sighs  of  satisfaction,  while  hands  were 
thrust  into  pockets  for  their  pipes,  and  the 
pigs'  bladders  bulging  with  tobacco. 

Edwige  Legare,  seating  himself  on  the 
door-step,  proclaimed  two  or  three  times: — 
"I  have  dined  well  ...  I  have  dined  well 
..."  with  the  air  of  a  judge  who  renders 
an  impartial  decision;  after  which  he  leaned 
against  the  post  and  let  the  smoke  of  his 
[67] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

pipe  and  the  gaze  of  his  small  light-coloured 
eyes  pursue  the  same  purposeless  wander 
ings.  The  elder  Chapdelaine  sank  deeper 
and  deeper  into  his  chair,  and  ended  by  fall 
ing  asleep;  the  others  smoked  and  chatted 
about  their  work. 

"If  there  is  anything,"  said  the  mother, 
"  which  could  reconcile  me  to  living  so  far 
away  in  the  woods,  it  is  seeing  my  men-folk 
make  a  nice  bit  of  land — a  nice  bit  of  land 
that  was  all  trees  and  stumps  and  roots, 
which  one  beholds  in  a  fortnight  as  bare  as 
the  back  of  your  hand,  ready  for  the  plough; 
surely  nothing  in  the  world  can  be  more 
pleasing  or  better  worth  doing."  The  rest 
gave  assent  with  nods,  and  were  silent  for  a 
while,  admiring  the  picture.  Soon  however 
Chapdelaine  awoke,  refreshed  by  his  sleep 
and  ready  for  work;  then  all  arose  and  went 
out  together. 

The  place  where  they  had  worked  in  the 
morning  was  yet  full  of  stumps  and  over 
grown  with  alders.  They  set  themselves  to 
cutting  and  uprooting  the  alders,  gathering 
a  sheaf  of  branches  in  the  hand  and  severing 
them  with  the  ax,  or  sometimes  digging  the 

[68] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

earth  away  about  the  roots  and  tearing  up 
the  whole  bush  together.  The  alders  dis 
posed  of,  there  remained  the  stumps. 

Legare  and  Esdras  attacked  the  smaller 
ones  with  no  weapons  but  their  axes  and 
stout  wooden  prizes.  They  first  cut  the  roots 
spreading  on  the  surface,  then  drove  a  lever 
well  home,  and,  chests  against  the  bar,  threw 
all  their  weight  upon  it.  When  their  efforts 
could  not  break  the  hundred  ties  binding  the 
tree  to  the  soil  Legare  continued  to  bear 
heavily  that  he  might  raise  the  stump  a  little, 
and  while  he  groaned  and  grunted  under  the 
strain  Esdras  hewed  away  furiously  level 
with  the  ground,  severing  one  by  one  the 
remaining  roots. 

A  little  distance  away  the  other  three  men 
handled  the  stumping-machine  with  the  aid 
of  Charles  Eugene.  The  pyramidal  scaffold 
ing  was  put  in  place  above  a  large  stump  and 
lowered,  the  chains  which  were  then  at 
tached  to  the  root  passed  over  a  pulley,  and 
the  horse  at  the  other  end  started  away 
quickly,  flinging  himself  against  the  traces 
and  showering  earth  with  his  hoofs.  A  short 
and  desperate  charge,  a  mad  leap  often 

[69] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

arrested  after  a  few  feet  as  by  the  stroke  of 
a  giant  fist;  then  the  heavy  steel  blades 
would  swing  up  anew,  gleaming  in  the  sun, 
and  fall  with  a  dull  sound  upon  the  stubborn 
wood,  while  the  horse  took  breath  for  a 
moment,  awaiting  with  excited  eye  the  word 
that  would  launch  him  forward  again.  And 
afterwards  there  was  still  the  labour  of 
hauling  or  rolling  the  big  stumps  to  the 
pile — at  fresh  effort  of  back,  of  soil-stained 
hands  with  swollen  veins,  and  stiffened  arms 
that  seemed  grotesquely  striving  with  thex 
heavy  trunk  and  the  huge  twisted  roots.\ 

The  sun  dipped  toward  the  horizon,  dis 
appeared;  the  sky  took  on  softer  hues  above 
the  forest's  dark  edge,  and  the  hour  of  supper 
brought  to  the  house  five  men  of  the  colour 
of  the  soil. 

While  waiting  upon  them  Madame  Chap- 
delaine  asked  a  hundred  questions  about  the 
day's  work,  and  when  the  vision  arose  before 
her  of  this  patch  of  land  they  had  cleared, 
superbly  bare,  lying  ready  for  the  plough, 
her  spirit  was  possessed  with  something  of  a 
mystic's  rapture. 

With  hands  upon  her  hips,  refusing  to  seat 
[70] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

herself  at  table,  she  extolled  the  beauty  of 
the  world  as  it  existed  for  her:  not  the  beauty 
wherein  human  beings  have  no  hand,  which 
the  townsman  makes  such  an  ado  about  with 
his  unreal  ecstasies — mountains  lofty  and 
bare,  wild  seas — but  the  quiet  unaffected 
loveliness  of  the  level  champaign,  finding  its 
charm  in  the  regularity  of  the  long  furrow 
and  the  sweetly-flowing  stream — the  naked 
champaign  courting  with  willing  abandon 
the  fervent  embraces  of  the  sun. 

She  sang  the  great  deeds  of  the  four  Chap- 
delaines  and  Edwige  Legare,  their  struggle 
against  the  savagery  of  nature,  their  triumph 
of  the  day.  She  awarded  praises  and  displayed 
her  own  proper  pride,  albeit  the  five  men 
smoked  their  wooden  or  clay  pipes  in  silence, 
motionless  as  images  after  their  long  task;  im 
ages  of  earthy  hue,  hollow-eyed  with  fatigue. 

"The  stumps  are  hard  to  get  out,"  at 
length  said  the  elder  Chapdelaine,  "the  roots 
have  not  rotted  in  the  earth  so  much  as  I 
should  have  imagined.  I  calculate  that  we 
shall  not  be  through  for  three  weeks." 
He  glanced  questioningly  at  Legare  who 
gravely  confirmed  him. 
[71] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"Three  weeks  .  .  .  Yes,  confound  it! 
That  is  what  I  think  too." 

They  fell  silent  again,  patient  and  deter 
mined,  like  men  who  face  a  long  war. 

The  Canadian  spring  had  but  known  a 
few  weeks  of  life  when,  by  calendar,  the  sum 
mer  was  already  come;  it  seemed  as  if  the 
local  weather  god  had  incontinently  pushed 
the  season  forward  with  august  finger  to 
bring  it  again  into  accord  with  more  favoured 
lands  to  the  south.  For  torrid  heat  fell 
suddenly  upon  them,  heat  well-nigh  as  un 
measured  as  was  the  winter's  cold.  The  tops 
of  the  spruces  and  cypresses,  forgotten  by 
the  wind,  were  utterly  still,  and  above  the 
frowning  outline  stretched  a  sky  bare  of 
cloud  which  likewise  seemed  fixed  and 
motionless.  From  dawn  till  nightfall  a 
merciless  sun  calcined  the  ground. 

The  five  men  worked  on  unceasingly,  while 
from  day  to  day  the  clearing  extended  its 
borders  by  a  little;  deep  wounds  in  the  un 
covered  soil  showed  the  richness  of  it. 

Maria  went  forth  one  morning  to  carry 
them  water.  The  father  and  Tit'Be  were 
cutting  alders,  Da'Be  and  Esdras  piled  the 

[72] 


MARIA          C    H    APDELAINE 

cut  trees.  Edwige  Legare  was  attacking  a 
stump  by  himself;  a  hand  against  the  trunk, 
he  had  grasped  a  root  with  the  other  as  one 
seizes  the  leg  of  some  gigantic  adversary  in 
a  struggle,  and  he  was  fighting  the  combined 
forces  of  wood  and  earth  like  a  man  furious 
at  the  resistance  of  an  enemy.  Suddenly  the 
stump  yielded  and  lay  upon  the  ground;  he 
passed  a  hand  over  his  forehead  and  sat 
down  upon  a  root,  running  with  sweat,  over 
come  by  the  exertion.  When  Maria  came 
near  him  with  her  pail  half  full  of  water, 
the  others  having  drunk,  he  was  still  seated, 
breathing  deeply  and  saying  in  a  bewildered 
way: — "I  am  done  for  ...  Ah!  I  am  done 
for."  But  he  pulled  himself  together  on 
seeing  her,  and  roared  out: — "Gold  water! 
Perdition!  Give  me  cold  water." 

Seizing  the  bucket  he  drank  half  its  con 
tents  and  poured  the  rest  over  his  head  and 
neck;  still  dripping,  he  threw  himself  afresh 
upon  the  vanquished  stump  and  began  to 
roll  it  toward  a  pile  as  one  carries  off  a  prize. 

Maria  stayed  for  a  few  moments  looking 
at  the  work  of  the  men  and  the  progress  they 
had  made,  each  day  more  evident,  then  hied 

[73] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

her  back  to  the  house  swinging  the  empty 
bucket,  happy  to  feel  herself  alive  and  well 
under  the  bright  sun,  dreaming  of  all  the 
joys  that  were  to  be  hers,  nor  could  be  long 
delayed  if  only  she  were  earnest  and  patient 
enough  in  her  prayers. 

Even  at  a  distance  the  voices  of  the  men 
came  to  her  across  the  surface  of  the  ground 
baked  by  the  heat;  Esdras,  his  hands  be 
neath  a  young  jack  pine,  was  saying  in  his 
quiet  tones: — "Gently  .  .  .  together  now!" 

Legare  was  wrestling  with  some  new  inert 
foe,  and  swearing  in  his  half-stifled  way: — 
"Perdition!  I'll  make  you  stir,  so  I  will." 
His  gasps  were  nearly  as  audible  as  the  words. 
Taking  breath  for  a  second  he  rushed  once 
more  into  the  fray,  arms  straining,  wrench 
ing  with  his  great  back.  And  yet  again  his 
voice  was  raised  in  oaths  and  lamentations: 
—"I  teU  you  that  I'll  have  you  ...  Oh 
you  rascal!  Isn't  it  hot?  .  .  .  I'm  pretty 
nearly  finished  ..."  His  complaints  ripened 
into  one  mighty  cry: — "Boss!  We  are  going 
to  kill  ourselves  making  land." 

Old  Chapdelaine's  voice  was  husky  but 
still  cheerful  as  he  answered:  "Tough! 
[74] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Edwige,  tough  I  The  pea-soup  will  soon  be 
ready. " 

And  in  truth  it  was  not  long  before  Maria, 
once  more  on  the  door-step,  shaping  her 
hands  to  carry  the  sound,  sent  forth  the  ring 
ing  call  to  dinner. 

Toward  evening  a  breeze  arose  and  a  deli 
cious  coolness  fell  upon  the  earth  like  a 
pardon.  But  the  sky  remained  cloudless. 

"If  the  fine  weather  lasts,"  said  mother 
Ghapdelaine,  "the  blueberries  will  be  ripe 
for  the  feast  of  Ste.  Anne." 


[75] 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  VOWS 


The  fine  weather  continued,  and. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  VOWS 

HE  fine  weather  continued,  and 
early  in  July  the  blueberries  were 
ripe. 

Where  the  fire  had  passed,  on 
rocky  slopes,  wherever  the  woods 
were  thin  and  the  sun  could 
penetrate,  the  ground  had  been  clad  in 
almost  unbroken  pink  by  the  laurel's  myr 
iad  tufts  of  bloom;  at  first  the  reddening 
blueberries  contended  with  them  in  glowing 
colour,  but  under  the  constant  sun  these 
slowly  turned  to  pale  blue,  to  royal  blue, 
to  deepest  purple,  and  when  July  brought 
the  feast  of  Ste.  Anne  the  bushes  laden  with 
fruit  were  broad  patches  of  violet  amid  the 
rosy  masses  now  beginning  to  fade. 

The  forests  of  Quebec  are  rich  in  wild 
berries;  cranberries,  Indian  pears,  black  cur 
rants,  sarsaparilla  spring  up  freely  in  the 
wake  of  the  great  fires,  but  the  blueberry, 
the  bilberry  or  whortleberry  of  France,  is 
of  all  the  most  abundant  and  delicious. 
[79] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

The  gathering  of  them,  from  July  to  Sep 
tember,  is  an  industry  for  many  families  who 
spend  the  whole  day  hi  the  woods;  strings 
of  children  down  to  the  tiniest  go  swinging 
their  tin  pails,  empty  in  the  morning,  full 
and  heavy  by  evening.  Others  only  gather 
the  blueberries  for  their  own  use,  either  to 
make  jam  or  the  famous  pies  national  to 
French  Canada. 

Two  or  three  tunes  in  the  very  beginning 
of  July  Maria,  with  Telesphore  and  Alma 
Rose,  went  to  pick  blueberries;  but  their  day 
had  not  come,  and  the  gleanings  barely 
sufficed  for  a  few  tarts  of  proportions  to 
excite  a  smile. 

"On  the  feast  of  Ste.  Anne,"  said  their 
mother  by  way  of  consolation,  "we  shall  all 
go  a-gathering;  the  men  as  well,  and  whoever 
fails  to  bring  back  a  full  pail  is  not  to  have 
any." 

But  Saturday,  the  eve  of  Ste.  Anne's  day, 
was  memorable  to  the  Chapdelaines;  an  even 
ing  of  company  such  as  their  house  in  the 
forest  had  never  seen. 

When  the  men  returned  from  work  Eu- 
trope  Gagnon  was  already  there.  He  had 

[80] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

supped,  he  said,  and  while  the  others  were 
at  their  meal  he  sat  by  the  door  in  the  cooler 
air  that  entered,  balancing  his  chair  on  two 
legs.  The  pipes  going,  talk  naturally  turned 
toward  the  labours  of  the  soil,  and  the  care 
of  stock. 

"With  five  men,"  said  Eutrope,  "you 
have  a  good  bit  of  land  to  show  in  a  short 
while.  But  working  alone,  as  I  do,  without 
a  horse  to  draw  the  heavy  logs,  one  makes 
poor  headway  and  has  a  hard  time  of  it.  How 
ever  you  are  always  getting  on,  getting  on." 

Madame  Ghapdelaine,  liking  him,  and 
feeling  a  great  sympathy  for  his  solitary 
labour  in  this  worthy  cause,  gave  him  a  few 
words  of  encouragement.  "You  don't  make 
very  quick  progress  by  yourself,  that  is  true 
enough,  but  a  man  lives  on  very  little  when 
he  is  alone,  and  then  your  brother  Egide  will 
be  coming  back  from  the  drive  with  two  or 
three  hundred  dollars  at  least,  in  time  for 
the  hay-making  and  the  harvest,  and,  if  you 
both  stay  here  next  winter,  in  less  than  two 
years  you  will  have  a  good  farm." 

Assenting  with  a  nod,  his  glance  found 
Maria,  as  though  drawn  thither  by  the  thought 
[81] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

that  in  two  years,   fortune   favouring,   he 
might  hope  .  .  . 

"How  does  the  drive  go?"  asked  Esdras. 
"Is  there  any  news  from  that  quarter?" 

"I  had  word  through  Ferdina  Larouche,  a 
son  of  Thadee  Larouche  of  Honfleur,  who 
got  back  from  La  Tuque  last  month.  He 
said  that  things  were  going  well;  the  men 
were  not  having  too  bad  a  time." 

The  shanties,  the  drive,  these  are  the  two 
chief  heads  of  the  great  lumbering  industry, 
even  of  greater  importance  for  the  Province 
of  Quebec  than  is  farming.  From  October 
till  April  the  axes  never  cease  falling,  while 
sturdy  horses  draw  the  logs  over  the  snow 
to  the  banks  of  the  frozen  rivers;  and,  when 
spring  comes,  the  piles  melt  one  after  another 
into  the  rising  waters  and  begin  their  long 
adventurous  journey  through  the  rapids. 
At  every  abrupt  turn,  at  every  fall,  where 
logs  jam  and  pile,  must  be  found  the  strong 
and  nimble  river-drivers,  practised  at  the 
dangerous  work,  at  making  their  way  across 
the  floating  timber,  breaking  the  jams,  aid 
ing  with  ax  and  pike-pole  the  free  descent 
of  this  moving  forest. 
[8*] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"A  hard  time!"  exclaimed  Legare  with 
scorn.  "The  young  fellows  of  to-day  don't 
know  the  meaning  of  the  words.  After  three 
months  in  the  woods  they  are  in  a  hurry 
to  get  home  and  buy  yellow  boots,  stiff  hats 
and  cigarettes,  and  to  go  and  see  their  girls. 
Even  in  the  shanties,  as  things  are  now,  they 
are  as  well  fed  as  in  a  hotel,  with  meat  and 
potatoes  all  whiter  long.  Now,  thirty  years 
ago  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off  for  a  moment,  expressing 
with  a  shake  of  his  head  those  prodigious 
changes  that  the  years  had  wrought. 

"Thirty  years  ago,  when  the  railway  from 
Quebec  was  built,  I  was  there;  that  was  some 
thing  like  hardship,  I  can  tell  you!  I  was  only 
sixteen  years  of  age  but  I  chopped  with  the 
rest  of  them  to  clear  the  right  of  way,  always 
twenty-five  miles  ahead  of  the  steel,  and  for 
fourteen  months  I  never  clapped  eye  on  a 
house.  We  had  no  tents,  summer  or  winter, 
only  shelters  of  boughs  that  we  made  for 
ourselves,  and  from  morning  till  night  it  was 
chop,  chop,  chop, — eaten  by  the  flies,  and  in 
the  course  of  the  same  day  soaked  with  rain 
and  roasted  by  the  sun." 
[88] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"Every  Monday  morning  they  opened  a 
sack  of  flour  and  we  made  ourselves  a  bucket 
ful  of  pancakes,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  week, 
three  times  a  day,  one  dug  into  that  pail  for 
something  to  eat.  By  Wednesday,  no  longer 
any  pancakes,  because  they  were  all  stuck 
together;  nothing  there  but  a  mass  of  dough. 
One  cut  off  a  big  chunk  of  dough  with  one's 
knife,  put  that  in  his  belly,  and  then  chopped 
and  chopped  again!" 

"When  we  got  to  Chicoutimi  where  provi 
sions  could  reach  us  by  water  we  were  worse 
off  than  Indians,  pretty  nearly  naked,  all 
scratched  and  torn,  and  I  well  remember 
some  who  began  to  cry  when  told  they  could 
go  home,  because  they  thought  they  would 
find  all  their  people  dead,  so  long  had  the 
time  seemed  to  them.  Hardship!  That  was 
hardship  if  you  like." 

"That  is  so,"  said  Chapdelaine,  "I  can 
recall  those  days.  Not  a  single  house  on  the 
north  side  of  the  lake:  no  one  but  Indians 
and  a  few  trappers  who  made  their  way  up 
here  in  summer  by  canoe  and  in  winter 
with  dog-sleds,  much  as  it  is  now  in  the 
Labrador." 

[84] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

The  young  folk  were  listening  keenly  to 
these  tales  of  former  times.  "And  now," 
said  Esdras,  "here  we  are  fifteen  miles  be 
yond  the  lake,  and  when  the  Roberval  boat 
is  running  we  can  get  to  the  railway  in 
twelve  hours." 

They  meditated  upon  this  for  a  while 
without  a  word,  contrasting  past  and  present; 
the  cruel  harshness  of  life  as  once  it  was, 
the  easy  day's  journey  now  separating  them 
from  the  marvels  of  the  iron  way,  and  the 
thought  of  it  filled  them  with  naive  wonder. 

All  at  once  Chien  set  up  a  low  growl;  the 
sound  was  heard  of  approaching  footsteps. 
"Another  visitor!"  Madame  Ghapdelaine 
announced  in  a  tone  mingling  pleasure  and 
astonishment. 

Maria  also  arose,  agitated,  smoothing  her 
hair  with  unconscious  hand;  but  it  was 
Ephrem  Surprenant  of  Honfleur  who  opened 
the  door. 

"We  have  come  to  pay  you  a  visit!"  He 
shouted  this  with  the  air  of  one  who  an 
nounces  a  great  piece  of  news.  Behind  him 
was  someone  unknown  to  them,  who  bowed 
and  smiled  in  a  very  mannerly  way. 

[85] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"My  nephew  Lorenzo,"  was  Ephrem 
Surprenant's  introduction,  "a  son  of  my 
brother  Elzear  who  died  last  autumn.  You 
never  met  him,  it  is  a  long  time  since  he  left 
this  country  for  the  States." 

They  were  quick  to  find  a  chair  for  the 
young  man  from  the  States,  and  the  uncle 
undertook  the  duty  of  establishing  the 
nephew's  genealogy  on  both  sides  of  the  house, 
and  of  setting  forth  his  age,  trade  and  the 
particulars  of  his  life,  in  obedience  to  the 
Canadian  custom.  "Yes,  a  son  of  my  brother 
Elzear  who  married  a  young  Bourglouis  of 
Kiskisink.  You  should  be  able  to  recall 
that,  Madame  Chapdelaine?" 

From  the  depths  of  her  memory  mother 
Chapdelaine  unearthed  a  number  of  Surpre- 
nants  and  as  many  Bourglouis,  and  gave  the 
list  with  their  baptismal  names,  successive 
places  of  residence  and  a  full  record  of  their 
alliances. 

"Right.  Precisely  right.  Well,  this  one 
here  is  Lorenzo.  He  has  been  in  the  States 
for  many  years,  working  in  a  factory." 

Frankly  interested,  everyone  took  another 
good  look  at  Lorenzo  Surprenant.  His  face 

[86] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

was  rounded,  with  well-cut  features,  eyes 
gentle  and  unwavering,  hands  white;  with 
his  head  a  little  on  one  side  he  smiled  ami 
ably,  neither  superior  nor  embarrassed  under 
this  concentrated  gaze. 

"He  came  here,"  continued  his  uncle,  "to 
settle  affairs  after  the  death  of  Elzear,  and 
to  try  to  sell  the  farm." 

"He  has  no  wish  to  hold  on  to  the  land 
and  cultivate  it?"  questioned  the  elder 
Chapdelaine. 

Lorenzo  Surprenant's  smile  broadened  and 
he  shook  his  head.  "No,  the  idea  of  settling 
down  on  the  farm  does  not  tempt  me,  not  in 
the  least.  I  earn  good  wages  where  I  am  and  like 
the  place  very  well;  I  am  used  to  the  work." 

He  checked  himself,  but  it  was  plain  that 
after  the  kind  of  life  he  had  been  living  and 
what  he  had  seen  of  the  world,  existence  on 
a  farm  between  a  humble  little  village  and 
the  forest  seemed  a  thing  insupportable. 

"When  I  was  a  girl,"  said  mother  Chap- 
delaine,  "pretty  nearly  everyone  went  off 
to  the  States.  Farming  did  not  pay  as  well 
as  it  does  now,  prices  were  low,  we  were 
always  hearing  of  the  big  wages  earned  over 

[87] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

there  in  the  factories,  and  every  year  one 
family  after  another  sold  out  for  next  to 
nothing  and  left  Canada.  Some  made  a  lot 
of  money,  no  doubt  of  that,  especially  those 
families  with  plenty  of  daughters;  but  now 
it  is  different  and  they  are  not  going  as  once 
they  did  ...  So  you  are  selling  the  farm?" 

"Yes,  there  has  been  some  talk  with  three 
Frenchmen  who  came  to  Mistook  last  month. 
I  expect  we  shall  make  a  bargain." 

"And  are  there  many  Canadians  where 
you  are  living?  Do  the  people  speak  French?" 

"At  the  place  I  went  to  first,  in  the  State 
of  Maine,  there  were  more  Canadians  than 
Americans  or  Irish;  everyone  spoke  French; 
but  where  I  live  now,  in  the  State  of  Mas 
sachusetts,  there  are  not  so  many.  A  few 
families  however;  we  call  on  one  another  in 
the  evenings." 

"Samuel  once  thought  of  going  West," 
said  Madame  Chapdelaine,  "but  I  was  never 
willing.  Among  people  speaking  nothing  but 
English  I  should  have  been  unhappy  all  the 
rest  of  my  days.  I  used  to  say  to  him: — 
'Samuel,  we  Canadians  are  always  better 
off  among  Canadians.' ' 

[88] 


ARIA          CHAPDELAINE 


When  the  French  Canadian  speaks  of 
himself  it  is  invariably  and  simply  as  a 
"Canadian";  whereas  for  all  the  other  races 
that  followed  in  his  footsteps,  and  peopled 
the  country  across  to  the  Pacific,  he  keeps 
the  name  of  origin:  English,  Irish,  Polish, 
Russian;  never  admitting  for  a  moment  that 
the  children  of  these,  albeit  born  in  the 
country,  have  an  equal  title  to  be  called 
"Canadians."  Quite  naturally,  and  without 
thought  of  offending,  he  appropriates  the 
name  won  in/the  heroic  days  of  his  fore 
fathers,  vx^ 

"And  is  it  a  large  town  where  you  are?" 

"Ninety  thousand,"  said  Lorenzo  with  a 
little  affectation  of  modesty. 

"Ninety  thousand!  Bigger  than  Quebec!" 

"Yes,  and  we  are  only  an  hour  by  train 
from  Boston.  A  really  big  place,  that." 

And  he  set  himself  to  telling  of  the  great 
American  cities  and  their  magnificence,  of 
the  life  filled  with  ease  and  plenty,  abounding 
in  refinements  beyond  imagination,  which 
is  the  portion  of  the  well  paid  artisan. 

In  silence  they  listened  to  his  words. 
Framed  in  the  open  door-way  the  last  crim- 

[89] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

son  of  the  sky,  fading  to  paler  tints,  rose 
above  the  vague  masses  of  the  forest, — a 
column  resting  upon  its  base.  The  mosqui- 
tos  began  to  arrive  in  their  legions,  and  the 
humming  of  innumerable  wings  filled  the 
clearing  with  low  continuous  sound. 

" Telesphore,"  directed  the  father,  "make 
us  a  smudge.  Take  the  old  tin  pail."  Teles 
phore  covered  the  bottom  of  the  leaky  vessel 
with  earth,  filling  it  then  with  dry  chips  and 
twigs  which  he  set  ablaze.  When  the  flame 
was  leaping  up  brightly  he  returned  with  an 
armful  of  herbs  and  leaves  and  smothered  it; 
the  volume  of  stinging  smoke  which  ascended 
was  carried  by  the  wind  into  the  house  and 
drove  out  the  countless  horde.  At  length 
they  were  at  peace,  and  with  sighs  of  relief 
could  desist  from  the  warfare.  The  very  last 
mosquito  settled  on  the  face  of  little  Alma 
Rose.  With  great  seriousness  she  pronounced 
the  ritual  words: — "Fly,  fly,  get  off  my  face, 
my  nose  is  not  a  public  place!"  Then  she 
made  a  swift  end  of  the  creature  with  a  slap. 
The  smoke  drifted  obliquely  through  the 
door-way;  within  the  house,  no  longer  stirred 
by  the  breeze,  it  spread  in  a  thin  cloud;  the 

[90] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

walls  became  indistinct  and  far-off;  the  group 
seated  between  door  and  stove  resolved  into  a 
circle  of  dim  faces  hanging  in  a  white  haze. 

"Greetings  to  everyone!"  The  tones  rang 
clear,  and  Frangois  Paradis,  emerging  from 
the  smoke,  stood  upon  the  threshold.  For 
weeks  Maria  had  been  expecting  him.  Half 
an  hour  earlier  the  sound  of  a  step  without 
had  sent  the  blood  to  her  cheek,  and  yet 
the  arrival  of  him  she  awaited  moved  her 
with  joyous  surprise. 

"Offer  your  chair,  Da'Be!"  cried  mother 
Chapdelaine.  Four  callers  from  three  differ 
ent  quarters  converging  upon  her,  truly 
nothing  more  was  needed  to  fill  her  with  de 
lightful  excitement.  An  evening  indeed  to 
be  remembered! 

"There!  You  are  forever  saying  that  we 
are  buried  in  the  woods  and  see  no  company," 
triumphed  her  husband.  "Count  them  over: 
eleven  grown-up  people!"  Every  chair  in  the 
house  was  filled;  Esdras,  Tit'Be  and  Eutrope 
Gagnon  occupied  the  bench,  Chapdelaine,  a 
box  turned  upside  down;  from  the  step 
Telesphore  and  Alma  Rose  watched  the 
mounting  smoke. 

[91] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"And  look,"  said  Ephrem  Surprenant, 
"how  many  young  fellows  and  only  one  girl!" 
The  young  men  were  duly  counted:  three 
Ghapdelaines,  Eutrope  Gagnon,  Lorenzo  Sur 
prenant,  Frangois  Paradis.  As  for  the  one 
girl  .  .  .  Every  eye  was  turned  upon  Maria, 
who  smiled  feebly  and  looked  down,  con 
fused. 

"Had  you  a  good  trip,  Frangois? — He 
went  up  the  river  with  strangers  to  buy 
furs  from  the  Indians,"  explained  Chapde- 
laine;  who  presented  to  the  others  with 
formality — "Francois  Paradis,  son  of  Fran 
gois  Paradis  from  St.  Michel  de  Mistassini." 
Eutrope  Gagnon  knew  him  by  name,  Eph 
rem  Surprenant  had  met  his  father: — "A 
tall  man,  taller  still  than  he,  of  a  strength 
not  to  be  matched."  It  only  remained  to 
account  for  Lorenzo  Surprenant, — "who  has 
come  home  from  the  States" — and  all  the 
conventions  had  been  honoured. 

"A  good  trip,"  answered  Frangois.  "No, 
not  very  good.  One  of  the  Belgians  took  a 
fever  and  nearly  died.  After  that  it  was 
rather  late  in  the  season;  many  Indian 
families  had  already  gone  down  to  Ste. 

[92] 


MARIA          GHAPDELAINE 

Anne  de  Chicoutimi  and  could  not  be  found; 
and  on  top  of  it  all  a  canoe  was  wrecked 
when  running  a  rapid  on  the  way  back,  and 
it  was  hard  work  fishing  the  pelts  out  of  the 
river,  without  mentioning  the  fact  that  one 
of  the  bosses  was  nearly  drowned, — the  same 
one  that  had  the  fever.  No,  we  were  un 
lucky  all  through.  But  here  we  are  none 
the  less,  and  it  is  always  another  job  over 
and  done  with."  A  gesture  signified  to  the 
listeners  that  the  task  was  completed,  the 
wages  paid  and  the  ultimate  profits  or  losses 
not  his  affair. 

"Always  another  job  over  and  done 
with," — he  slowly  repeated  the  words.  "The 
Belgians  were  in  a  hurry  to  reach  Peribonka 
on  Sunday,  to-morrow;  but,  as  they  had 
another  man,  I  left  them  to  finish  the  journey 
without  me  so  that  I  might  spend  the  even 
ing  with  you.  It  does  one's  heart  good  to 
see  a  house  again." 

His  glance  strayed  contentedly  over  the 
meager  smoke-filled  interior  and  those  who 
peopled  it.  In  the  circle  of  faces  tanned  by 
wind  and  sun,  his  was  the  brownest  and 
most  weather-beaten;  his  garments  showed 

[93] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

many  rents,  one  side  of  the  torn  woollen 
jersey  flapped  upon  his  shoulder,  moccasins 
replaced  the  long  boots  he  had  worn  in  the 
spring.  He  seemed  to  have  brought  back 
something  of  nature's  wildness  from  the 
head-waters  of  the  rivers  where  the  Indians 
and  the  great  creatures  of  the  woods  find 
sanctuary.  And  Maria,  whose  life  would 
not  allow  her  to  discern  the  beauty  of  that 
wilderness  because  it  lay  too  near  her,  yet 
felt  that  some  strange  charm  was  at  work 
and  was  throwing  its  influence  about  her. 

Esdras  had  gone  for  the  cards;  cards  with 
faded  red  backs  and  dog-eared  corners, 
where  the  lost  queen  of  hearts  was  replaced 
by  a  square  of  pink  cardboard  bearing  the 
plainly-written  legend  dame  de  cceur.  They 
played  at  quatre-sept.  The  two  Surprenants, 
uncle  and  nephew,  had  Madame  Chapde- 
laine  and  Maria  for  partners;  after  each 
game  the  beaten  couple  left  the  table  and 
gave  place  to  two  other  players.  Night  had 
fallen;  some  mosquitos  made  their  way 
through  the  open  window  and  went  hither 
and  thither  with  their  stings  and  irritating 
music. 

[94] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAIINE 

"Telesphore!"  called  out  Esdras,  "see  to 
the  smudge,  the  flies  are  coming  in."  In  a 
few  minutes  smoke  pervaded  the  house  again, 
thick,  almost  stifling,  but  greeted  with  de 
light.  The  party  ran  its  quiet  course.  An 
hour  of  cards,  some  talk  with  a  visitor  who 
bears  news  from  the  great  world,  these  are 
still  accounted  happiness  in  the  Province  of 
Quebec. 

Between  the  games,  Lorenzo  Surprenant 
entertained  Maria  with  a  description  of  his 
life  and  his  journey  ings;  in  turn  asking  ques 
tions  about  her.  He  was  far  from  putting  on 
airs,  yet  she  felt  disconcerted  at  finding  so 
little  to  say,  and  her  replies  were  halting 
and  timid. 

The  others  talked  among  themselves  or 
watched  the  play.  Madame  recalled  the 
many  gatherings  at  St.  Gedeon  in  the  days 
of  her  girlhood,  and  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  with  unconcealed  pleasure  at  the  fact 
that  three  young  men  should  thus  assemble 
beneath  her  roof.  But  Maria  sat  at  the  table 
devoting  herself  to  the  cards,  and  left  it  for 
some  vacant  seat  near  the  door  with  scarcely 
a  glance  about  her.  Lorenzo  Surprenant  was 

[95] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

always  by  her  side  and  talking;  she  felt  the 
continual  regard  of  Eutrope  Gagnon  with 
that  familiar  look  of  patient  waiting;  she 
was  conscious  of  the  handsome  bronzed  face 
and  fearless  eyes  of  Frangois  Paradis  who 
sat  very  silent  beyond  the  door,  elbows  on 
his  knees. 

"Maria  is  not  at  her  best  this  evening," 
said  Madame  Chapdelairie  by  way  of  ex 
cusing  her,  "she  is  really  not  used  to 
having  visitors  you  see  .  .  ."  Had  she  but 
known! .  .  . 

Four  hundred  miles  away,  at  the  far  head 
waters  of  the  rivers,  those  Indians  who  have 
held  aloof  from  missionaries  and  traders 
are  squatting  round  a  fire  of  dry  cypress  be 
fore  their  lodges,  and  the  world  they  see 
about  them,  as  in  the  earliest  days,  is  filled 
with  dark  mysterious  powers:  the  giant 
Wendigo  pursuing  the  trespassing  hunter; 
strange  potions,  carrying  death  or  healing, 
which  wise  old  men  know  how  to  distil  from 
roots  and  leaves;  incantations  and  every 
magic  art.  And  here  on  the  fringe  of  another 
world,  but  a  day's  journey  from  the  railway, 
in  this  wooden  house  filled  with  acrid  smoke, 
[96} 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

another  all-conquering  spell,  charming  and 
bewildering  the  eyes  of  three  young  men,  is 
being  woven  into  the  shifting  cloud  by  a 
sweet  and  guileless  maid  with  downcast  eyes. 

The  hour  was  late;  the  visitors  departed; 
first  the  two  Surprenants,  then  Eutrope 
Gagnon,  only  Francois  Paradis  was  left, — 
standing  there  and  seeming  to  hesitate. 

"You  will  sleep  here  to-night,  Francois?" 
asked  the  father. 

His  wife  heard  no  reply.  "Of  course!" 
said  she.  "And  to-morrow  we  will  all  gather 
blueberries.  It  is  the  feast  of  Ste.  Anne." 

When  a  few  moments  later  Francois 
mounted  to  the  loft  with  the  boys,  Maria's 
heart  was  filled  with  happiness.  This  seemed 
to  bring  him  a  little  nearer,  to  draw  him 
within  the  family  circle. 

The  morrow  was  a  day  of  blue  sky,  a  day 
when  from  the  heavens  some  of  the  sparkle 
and  brightness  descends  to  earth.  The  green 
of  tender  grass  and  young  wheat  was  of  a 
ravishing  delicacy,  even  the  dun  woods 
borrowed  something  from  the  azure  of  the 
sky. 

Francois  came  down  in  the  morning  look- 
[97] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

ing  a  different  man,  in  clothes  borrowed  from 
Da'Be  and  Esdras,  and  after  he  had  shaved 
and  washed  Madame  Ghapdelaine  compli 
mented  him  on  his  appearance. 

When  breakfast  was  over  and  the  hour  of 
the  mass  come,  all  told  their  chaplet  to 
gether;  and  then  the  long  delightful  idle 
Sunday  lay  before  them.  But  the  day's 
programme  was  already  settled.  Eutrope 
Gagnon  came  in  just  as  they  were  finishing 
dinner,  which  was  early,  and  at  once  they 
all  set  forth,  provided  with  pails,  dishes  and 
tin  mugs  of  every  shape  and  size. 

The  blueberries  were  fully  ripe.  In  the 
burnt  lands  the  purple  of  the  clusters  and 
the  green  of  the  leaves  now  overcame  the 
paling  rose  of  the  laurels.  The  children  be 
gan  picking  at  once  with  cries  of  delight,  but 
their  elders  scattered  through  the  woods  in 
search  of  the  larger  patches,  where  one  might 
sit  on  one's  heels  and  fill  a  pail  in  an  hour. 
The  noise  of  footsteps  'on  dry  twigs,  of  rus 
tling  in  the  alder  bushes,  the  calls  of  Teles- 
phore  and  Alma  Rose  to  one  another,  all 
faded  slowly  into  the  distance,  and  about 
each  gatherer  was  only  the  buzzing  of  flies 

[98] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

drunk  with  sunshine,  and  the  voice  of  the 
wind  in  the  young  birches  and  aspens. 

"There  is  a  fine  clump  over  here,"  said  a 
voice.  Maria's  heart  beat  faster  as  she  arose 
and  went  toward  Frangois  Paradis  who  was 
kneeling  behind  the  alders.  Side  by  side  they 
picked  industriously  for  a  time,  then  plunged 
farther  into  the  woods,  stepping  over  fallen 
trees,  looking  about  them  for  the  deep  blue 
masses  of  the  ripe  berries. 

"There  are  very  few  this  year,"  said  Fran- 
Qois.  "It  was  the  spring  frosts  that  killed 
the  blossoms."  He  brought  to  the  berry- 
seeking  his  woodsman's  knowledge.  "In  the 
hollows  and  among  the  alders  the  snow  was 
lying  longer  and  kept  them  from  freezing." 

They  sought  again  and  made  some  happy 
finds:  broad  clumps  of  bushes  laden  with 
huge  berries  which  they  heaped  into  their 
pails.  In  the  space  of  an  hour  these  were 
filled;  they  rose  and  went  to  sit  on  a  fallen 
tree  to  rest  themselves. 

Mosquitos  swarmed  and  circled  in  the 
fervent  afternoon  heat.  Every  moment  the 
hand  must  be  raised  to  scatter  them;  after 
a  panic-stricken  flight  they  straightway  re- 

[99] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

turned,  reckless  and  pitiless,  bent  only  on 
finding  one  tiny  spot  to  plant  a  sting;  with 
their  sharp  note  was  blended  that  of  the 
insatiate  black-fly,  filling  the  woods  with  un 
ceasing  sound.  Living  trees  there  were  not 
many;  a  few  young  birches,  some  aspens, 
alder  bushes  were  stirring  in  the  wind  among 
the  rows  of  lifeless  and  blackened  trunks. 

Francois  Paradis  looked  about  him  as 
though  to  take  his  bearings.  "The  others 
cannot  be  far  away,"  he  said. 

"No,"  replied  Maria  in  a  low  voice.  But 
neither  he  nor  she  called  to  summon  them. 

A  squirrel  ran  down  the  bole  of  a  dead 
birch  tree  and  watched  the  pair  with  his 
sharp  eyes  for  some  moments  before  ventur 
ing  to  earth.  The  strident  flight  of  heavy 
grasshoppers  rose  above  the  intoxicated 
clamour  of  the  flies;  a  wandering  air  brought 
the  fall's  dull  thunder  through  the  alders. 

Frangois  Paradis  stole  a  glance  at  Maria, 
then  turned  his  eyes  away  and  tightly  clasped 
his  hands.  Ah,  but  she  was  good  to  look 
upon!  Thus  to  sit  beside  her,  to  catch 
these  shy  glimpses  of  the  strong  bosom,  the 
sweet  face  so  modest  and  so  patient,  the 

[100] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

utter  simplicity  of  attitude  and  of  her  rare 
gestures;  a  great  hunger  for  her  awoke  in 
him,  and  with  it  a  new  and  marvellous  ten 
derness,  for  he  had  lived  his  life  with  other 
men,  in  hard  give-and-take,  among  the  wild 
forests  and  on  the  snowy  plains. 

Well  he  knew  she  was  one  of  those  women 
who,  giving  themselves,  give  wholly,  reckon 
ing  not  the  cost;  love  of  body  and  of  soul, 
strength  of  arm  in  the  daily  task,  the  un 
measured  devotion  of  a  spirit  that  does  not 
waver.  So  precious  the  gift  appeared  to  him 
that  he  dared  not  ask  it. 

"I  am  going  down  to  Grand'Mere  next 
week,"  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "to 
work  on  the  lumber-dam.  But  I  will  never 
take  a  glass,  not  one,  Maria!"  Hesitating  a 
moment  he  stammered  out,  eyes  on  the 
ground:  "Perhaps  .  .  .  they  have  said  some 
thing  against  me?" 

"No." 

"  It  is  true  that  I  used  to  drink  a  bit,  when 
I  got  back  from  the  shanties  and  the  drive; 
but  that  is  all  over  now.  You  see  when  a 
young  fellow  has  been  working  in  the  woods 
for  six  months,  with  every  kind  of  hardship 

[101] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

and  no  amusement,  and  gets  out  to  La  Tuque 
or  Jonquieres  with  all  the  winter's  wages  in 
his  pocket,  pretty  often  he  loses  his  head;  he 
throws  his  money  about  and  sometimes  takes 
too  much  .  .  .  But  that  is  all  over." 

"And  it  is  also  true  that  I  used  to  swear. 
When  one  lives  all  the  time  with  rough  men 
in  the  woods  or  on  the  rivers  one  gets  the 
habit.  Once  I  swore  a  good  deal,  and  the 
cure,  Mr.  Tremblay,  took  me  to  task  be 
cause  I  said  before  him  that  I  wasn't  afraid 
of  the  devil.  But  there  is  an  end  of  that  too, 
Maria.  All  the  summer  I  am  to  be  working 
for  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  day  and  you 
may  be  sure  that  I  shall  save  money.  And 
in  the  autumn  there  will  be  no  trouble  find 
ing  a  job  as  foreman  in  a  shanty,  with  big 
wages.  Next  spring  I  shall  have  more  than 
five  hundred  dollars  saved,  clear,  and  I  shall 
come  back.  ..." 

Again  he  hesitated,  and  the  question  he 
was  about  to  put  took  another  form  upon 
his  lips.  "You  will  be  here  still  .  .  .  next 
spring?" 

"Yes." 

And  after  the  simple  question  and  simpler 

[102] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

answer  they  fell  silent  and  so  long  remained, 
wordless  and  grave,  for  they  had  exchanged 
their  vows. 


[103] 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 


In  July  the  hay  was  maturing,  and. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 


N  July  the  hay  was  maturing,  and 
by  the  middle  of  August  it  was 
only  a  question  of  awaiting  a 
few  dry  days  to  cut  and  store 
it.  But  after  many  weeks  of  fine 
weather  the  frequent  shifts  of 
wind  which  are  usual  in  Quebec  once  more 
ruled  the  skies. 

Every  morning  the  men  scanned  the 
heavens  and  took  counsel  together.  "The 
wind  is  backing  to  the  sou'east.  Rad  luck! 
Reyond  question  it  will  rain  again,"  said 
Edwige  Legare  with  a  gloomy  face.  Or  it  was 
old  Ghapdelaine  who  followed  the  movement 
of  the  white  clouds  that  rose  above  the 
tree-tops,  sailed  in  glad  procession  across 
the  clearing,  and  disappeared  behind  the 
dark  spires  on  the  other  side. 

"If  the  nor' west  holds  till  to-morrow  we 
shall  begin,"  he  announces.  Rut  next  day 
the  wind  had  backed  afresh,  and  the  cheerful 
clouds  of  yesterday,  now  torn  and  shapeless, 

[107] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

straggling  in  disorderly  rout,  seemed  to  be 
fleeing  like  the  wreckage  of  a  broken  army. 

Madame  Ghapdelaine  foretold  inevitable 
misfortune.  "Mark  my  words,  we  shall  not 
have  good  hay-making  weather.  They  say 
that  down  by  the  end  of  the  lake  some  people 
of  the  same  parish  have  gone  to  law  with 
one  another.  Of  a  certainty  the  good  God 
does  not  like  that  sort  of  thing!" 

Yet  the  Power  at  length  was  pleased  to 
show  indulgence,  and  the  north-west  wind 
blew  for  three  days  on  end,  steady  and  strong, 
promising  a  rainless  week.  The  scythes  were 
long  since  sharpened  and  ready,  and  the 
five  men  set  to  work  on  the  morning  of  the 
third  day.  L£gare,  Esdras  and  the  father 
cut;  Da'Be  and  Tit'Be  followed  close  on 
their  heels,  raking  the  hay  together.  To 
ward  evening  all  five  took  their  forks  in 
hand  and  made  it  into  cocks,  high  and  care 
fully  built,  lest  a  change  of  wind  should  bring 
rain.  But  the  sunshine  lasted.  For  five  days 
they  carried  on,  swinging  the  scythe  steadily 
from  right  to  left  with  that  broad  free  move 
ment  that  seems  so  easy  to  the  practised 
hand,  and  is  in  truth  the  hardest  to  learn 
[108] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

and  the  most  fatiguing  of  all  the  labours 
known  to  husbandry. 

Flies  and  mosquitos  rose  in  swarms  from 
the  cut  hay,  stinging  and  tormenting  the 
workers;  a  blazing  sun  scorched  their  necks, 
and  smarting  sweat  ran  into  their  eyes;  when 
evening  came,  such  was  the  ache  of  backs 
continually  bent,  they  could  not  straighten 
themselves  without  making  wry  faces.  Yet 
they  toiled  from  dawn  to  nightfall  without 
loss  of  a  second,  hurrying  their  meals,  feeling 
nothing  but  gratitude  and  happiness  that 
the  weather  stood  fair. 

Three  or  four  times  a  day  Maria  or  Teles- 
phore  brought  them  a  bucket  of  water  which 
they  stood  in  a  shady  spot  to  keep  it  cool; 
and  when  throats  became  unbearably  dry 
with  heat,  exertion  and  the  dust  of  the  hay, 
they  went  by  turns  to  swallow  great  draughts 
and  deluge  wrists  or  head. 

In  five  days  all  the  hay  was  cut,  and,  the 
drought  persisting,  on  the  morning  of  the 
sixth  day  they  began  to  break  and  scatter 
the  cocks  they  intended  lodging  in  the  barn 
before  night.  The  scythes  had  done  their 
work  and  the  forks  came  into  play.  They 
U09] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

threw  down  the  cocks,  spread  the  hay  in  the 
sun,  and  toward  the  end  of  the  afternoon, 
when  dry,  heaped  it  anew  in  piles  of  such  a 
size  that  a  man  could  just  lift  one  with  a 
single  motion  to  the  level  of  a  well-filled 
hay-cart. 

Charles  Eugene  pulled  gallantly  between 
the  shafts;  the  cart  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
barn,  stopped  beside  the  mow,  and  once 
again  the  forks  were  plunged  into  the  hard- 
packed  hay,  raised  a  thick  mat  of  it  with 
strain  of  wrist  and  back,  and  unloaded  it  to 
one  side.  By  the  end  of  the  week  the  hay, 
well-dried  and  of  excellent  colour,  was  all 
under  cover;  the  men  stretched  themselves 
and  took  long  breaths,  knowing  the  fight 
was  over  and  won. 

"  It  may  rain  now  if  it  likes,"  said  Ghapde- 
laine.  "It  will  be  all  the  same  to  us."  But 
it  appeared  that  the  sunshine  had  not  been 
timed  with  exact  relation  to  their  peculiar 
needs,  for  the  wind  held  in  the  north-west 
and  fine  days  followed  one  upon  the  other 
in  unbroken  succession. 

The  women  of  the  Ghapdelaine  household 
had  no  part  in  the  work  of  the  fields.  The 

[110] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

father  and  his  three  tall  sons,  all  strong  and 
skilled  in  farm  labour,  could  have  managed 
,  everything  by  themselves;  if  they  continued 
to  employ  Legare  and  to  pay  him  wages  it 
was  because  he  had  entered  their  service 
eleven  years  before,  when  the  children  were 
young,  and  they  kept  him  now,  partly 
through  habit,  partly  because  they  were  loth 
to  lose  the  help  of  so  tremendous  a  worker. 
During  the  hay-making  then,  Maria  and  her 
mother  had  only  then*  usual  tasks:  house 
work,  cooking,  washing  and  mending,  the 
milking  of  three  cows  and  the  care  of  the 
henSj/and  once  a  week  the  baking  which 
/  oft^n  lasted  well  into  the  night. 
V/On  the  eve  of  a  baking  Telesphore  was 
sent  to  hunt  up  the  bread-pans  which 
habitually  found  their  way  into  all  corners 
of  the  house  and  shed — being  in  daily  use  to 
measure  oats  for  the  horse  or  Indian  corn 
for  the  fowls,  not  to  mention  twenty  other 
casual  purposes  they  were  continually  serv 
ing.  By  the  time  all  were  routed  out  and 
scrubbed  the  dough  was  rising,  and  the 
women  hastened  to  finish  other  work  that 
their  evening  watch  might  be  shortened, 
[ill] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Telesphore  made  a  blazing  fire  below  the 
oven  with  branches  of  gummy  cypress  that 
smelled  of  resin,  then  fed  it  with  tamarack 
logs,  giving  a  steady  and  continuous  heat. 
When  the  oven  was  hot  enough,  Maria 
slipped  in  the  pans  of  dough;  after  which 
nothing  remained  but  to  tend  the  fire  and 
change  the  position  of  the  pans  as  the  bak 
ing  required. 

Too  small  an  oven  had  been  built  five 
years  before,  and  ever  since  then  the  family 
did  not  escape  a  weekly  discussion  about  the 
new  oven  it  was  imperative  to  construct, 
which  unquestionably  should  have  been  put 
in  hand  without  delay;  but  on  each  trip  to 
the  village,  by  one  piece  of  bad  luck  and 
another,  someone  forgot  the  necessary  ce 
ment;  and  so  it  happened  that  the  oven  had 
to  be  filled  two  or  even  three  times  to  make 
weekly  provision  for  the  nine  mouths  of  the 
household. 

Maria  invariably  took  charge  of  the  first 
baking;  invariably  too,  when  the  oven  was 
ready  for  the  second  batch  of  bread  and  the 
evening  well  advanced,  her  mother  would 
say  considerately: — "You  can  go  to  bed, 

1112] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Maria,  I  will  look  after  the  second  baking. " 
And  Maria  would  reply  never  a  word, 
knowing  full  well  that  the  mother  would 
presently  stretch  herself  on  the  hed  for  a 
little  nap  and  not  awake  till  morning.  She 
then  would  revive  the  smudge  that  smoul 
dered  every  evening  in  the  damaged  tin  pail, 
install  the  second  batch  of  bread,  and  seat 
herself  upon  the  door-step,  her  chin  resting 
in  her  hands,  upheld  through  the  long  hours 
of  the  night  by  her  inexhaustible  patience. 

Twenty  paces  from  the  house  the  clay 
oven  with  its  sheltering  roof  of  boards 
loomed  dark,  but  the  door  of  the  fireplace 
fitted  badly  and  one  red  gleam  escaped 
through  the  chink;  the  dusky  border  of  the 
forest  stole  a  little  closer  in  the  night. 
Maria  sat  very  still,  delighting  in  the  quiet 
and  the  coolness,  white  a  thousand  vague 
dreams  circled ,  ahdut  her  like  a  flock  of 
wheeling  birds.  \f 

There  was  a  time  when  this  night-watch 
passed  in  drowsiness,  as  she  resignedly 
awaited  the  moment  when  the  finished  task 
would  bring  her  sleep;  but  since  the  coming 
of  Frangois  Paradis  the  long  weekly  vigil 
[113] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

was  very  sweet  to  her,  for  she  could  think 
of  him  and  of  herself  with  nothing  to  distract 
her  dear  imaginings.  Simple  they  were, 
these  thoughts  of  hers,  and  never  did  they 
travel  far  afield.  In  the  springtime  he  will 
come  back;  this  return  of  his,  the  joy  of 
seeing  him  again,  the  words  he  will  say  when 
they  find  themselves  once  more  alone,  the 
first  touch  of  hands  and  lips.  Not  easy  was 
it  for  Maria  to  make  a  picture  for  herself 
of  how  these  things  were  to  come  ahout. 

Yet  she  essayed.  First  she  repeated  his 
full  name  two  or  three  times,  formally,  as 
others  spoke  it:  Frangois  Paradis,  from  St. 
Michel  de  Mistassini  .  .  .  Frangois  Para 
dis  ...  Then  suddenly,  with  sweet  in 
timacy, — Frangois ! 

The  evocation  fails  not.  He  stands  before 
her  tall  and  strong,  bold  of  eye,  his  face 
bronzed  with  sun  and  snow-glare.  He  is  by 
her  side,  rejoicing  at  the  sight  of  her,  re 
joicing  that  he  has  kept  his  faith,  has  lived 
the  whole  year  discreetly,  without  drinking 
or  swearing.  There  are  no  blueberries  yet 
to  gather — it  is  only  springtime — yet  some 
good  reason  they  find  for  rambling  off  to 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

the  woods;  he  walks  beside  her  without  word 
or  joining  of  hands,  through  the  massed 
laurel  flaming  into  blossom,  and  naught  be 
yond  does  either  need  to  flush  the  cheek, 
to  quicken  the  beating  of  the  heart. 

Now  they  are  seated  upon  a  fallen  tree, 
and  thus  he  speaks:  "Were  you  lonely  with 
out  me,  Maria?"  Most  surely  it  is  the  first 
question  he  will  put  to  her;  but  she  is  able 
to  carry  the  dream  no  further  for  the  sudden 
pain  stabbing  her  heart.  Ah!  dear  God! 
how  long  will  she  have  been  lonely  for  him 
before  that  moment  comes!  A  summer  to 
be  lived  through,  an  autumn,  and  all  the  end 
less  winter!  She  sighs,  but  the  steadfast 
patience  of  the  race  sustains  her,  and  her 
thoughts  turn  upon  herself  and  what  the 
future  may  be  holding. 

When  she  was  at  St.  Prime,  one  of  her 
cousins  who  was  about  to  be  wedded  spoke 
often  to  her  of  marriage.  A  young  man 
from  the  village  and  another  from  Nor- 
mandin  had  both  courted  her;  for  long  months 
spending  the  Sunday  evenings  together  at 
the  house. 

"  I  was  fond  of  them  both," — thus  she  de- 

[115] 


MARIA  CHAPD    ELAINE 

clared  to  Maria.  "And  I  really  think  I  liked 
Zotique  best;  but  he  went  off  to  the  drive  on 
the  St.  Maurice,  and  he  wasn't  to  be  back 
till  summer;  then  Romeo  asked  me  and  I 
said,  'Yes.'  I  like  him  very  well,  too." 

Maria  made  no  answer,  but  even  then  her 
heart  told  her  that  all  marriages  are  not  like 
that;  now  she  is  very  sure.  The  love  of 
Frangois  Paradis  for  her,  her  love  for  him,  is 
a  thing  apart — a  thing  holy  and  inevitable — 
for  she  was  unable  to  imagine  that  between 
them  it  should  have  befallen  otherwise;  so 
must  this  love  give  warmth  and  unfading  col 
our  to  every  day  of  the  dullest  life.  Always 
had  she  dim  consciousness  of  such  a  presence 
—moving  the  spirit  like  the  solemn  joy  of 
chanted  masses,  the  intoxication  of  a  sunny 
windy  day,  the  happiness  that  some  unlooked- 
for  good  fortune  brings,  the  certain  promise 
of  abundant  harvest  .  .  . 

In  the  stillness  of  the  night  the  roar  of  the 
fall  sounds  loud  and  near;  the  north-west 
wind  sways  the  tops  of  spruce  and  fir  with  a 
sweet  cool  sighing;  again  and  again,  farther 
away  and  yet  farther,  an  owl  is  hooting;  the 
chill  that  ushers  in  the  dawn  is  still  remote. 

[116] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

And  Maria,  in  perfect  contentment,  rests 
upon  the  step,  watching  the  ruddy  beam  from 
her  fire — flickering,  disappearing,  quickened 
again  to  birth. 

She  seems  to  remember  someone  long  since 
whispering  in  her  ear  that  the  world  and  life 
were  cheerless  and  gray.  The  daily  round, 
brightened  only  by  a  few  unsatisfying,  fleet 
ing  pleasures;  the  slow  passage  of  unchanging 
years;  the  encounter  with  some  young  man, 
like  other  young  men,  whose  patient  and 
hopeful  courting  ends  by  winning  affection;  a 
marriage  then,  and  afterwards  a  vista  of  days 
under  another  roof,  but  scarce  different  from 
those  that  went  before.  So  does  one  live,  the 
voice  had  told  her.  Naught  very  dreadful  in 
the  prospect,  and,  even  were  it  so,  what  pos 
sible  but  submission;  yet  all  level,  dreary  and 
chill  as  an  autumn  field. 

It  is  not  true!  Alone  there  in  the  darkness 
Maria  shakes  her  head,  a  smile  upon  her  lips, 
and  knows  how  far  from  true  it  is.  When  she 
thinks  of  Frangois  Paradis,  his  look,  his  bear 
ing,  of  what  they  are  and  will  be  to  one 
another,  he  and  she,  something  within  her 
bosom  has  strange  power  to  burn  with  the 

[117] 


MARIA          CKAPDELAINE 

touch  of  fire,  and  yet  to  make  her  shiver.  All 
the  strong  youth  of  her,  the  long-suffering  of 
her  sooth-fast  heart  find  place  in  it;  in  the 
upspringing  of  hope  and  of  longing,  this  vision 
of  her  approaching  miracle  of  happiness. 

Below  the  oven  the  red  gleam  quivers  and 
fails. 

"The  bread  must  be  ready!"  she  murmurs 
to  herself.  But  she  cannot  bring  herself  at 
once  to  rise,  loth  as  she  is  to  end  the  fair 
dream  that  seems  only  beginning. 


CHAPTER  VII 
A  MEAGER  REAPING 


September  arrived,  and. 


CHAPTER  VII 
A  MEAGER  REAPING 

1PTEMBER  arrived,  and  the  dry- 
ness  so  welcome  for  the  hay-making 
persisted  till  it  became  a  disaster. 
According  to  the  Ghapdelaines, 
never  had  the  country  been  visited 
with  such  a  drought  as  this,  and 
every  day  a  fresh  motive  was  suggested  for 
the  divine  displeasure. 

Oats  and  wheat  took  on  a  sickly  colour  ere 
attaining  their  growth;  a  merciless  sun  with 
ered  the  grass  and  the  clover  aftermath,  and 
all  day  long  the  famished  cows  stood  lowing 
with  their  heads  over  the  fences.  They  had 
to  be  watched  continually,  for  even  the 
meager  standing  crop  was  a  sore  temptation, 
and  never  a  day  went  by  but  one  of  them 
broke  through  the  rails  in  the  attempt  to 
appease  her  hunger  among  the  grain. 

Then,  of  a  sudden  one  evening,  as  though 

weary  of  a  constancy  so  unusual,  the  wind 

shifted  and  in  the  morning  came  the  rain.  It 

fell  off  and  on  for  a  week,  and  when  it  ceased 

[1*1] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINB 

and  the  wind  hauled  again  to  the  north-west, 
autumn  had  come. 

The  autumn!  And  it  seemed  as  though 
spring  were  here  but  yesterday.  The  grain 
was  yet  unripe,  though  yellowed  by  the 
drought;  nothing  save  the  hay  was  in  barn; 
the  other  crops  could  draw  nutriment  from 
the  soil  only  while  the  too  brief  summer 
warmed  it,  and  already  autumn  was  here,  the 
forerunner  of  relentless  winter,  of  the  frosts, 
and  soon  the  snows  .  .  . 

Between  the  wet  days  there  was  still  fine 
bright  weather,  hot  toward  noon,  when  one 
might  fancy  that  all  was  as  it  had  been:  the 
harvest  still  unreaped,  the  changeless  setting 
of  spruces  and  firs,  and  ever  the  same  sunsets 
of  gray  and  opal,  opal  and  gold,  and  skies  of 
misty  blue  above  the  same  dark  woodland. 
But  in  the  mornings  the  grass  was  sometimes 
white  with  rime,  and  swiftly  followed  the 
earliest  dry  frosts  which  killed  and  blackened 
the  tops  of  the  potatoes. 

Then,  for  the  first  tune,  a  film  of  ice  ap 
peared  upon  the  drinking-trough;  melted  by 
the  afternoon  sun  it  was  there  a  few  days 
later,  and  yet  a  third  time  in  the  same  week. 

[122] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Frequent  changes  of  wind  brought  an  alterna 
tion  of  mild  rainy  days  and  frosty  mornings; 
but  every  time  the  wind  came  afresh  from  the 
north-west  it  was  a  little  colder,  a  little  more 
remindful  of  the  icy  winter  blasts.  Every 
where  is  autumn  a  melancholy  season, 
charged  with  regrets  for  that  which  is 
departing,  with  shrinking  from  what  is  to 
come;  but  under  the  Canadian  skies  it  is 
sadder  and  more  moving  than  elsewhere,  as 
though  one  were  bewailing  the  death  of  a 
mortal  summoned  untimely  by  the  gods 
before  he  has  lived  out  his  span. 

Through  the  increasing  cold,  the  early 
frosts,  the  threats  of  snow,  they  held  back 
their  hands  and  put  off  the  reaping  from  day 
to  day,  encouraging  the  meager  grain  to  steal 
a  little  nourishment  from  the  earth's  failing 
veins  and  the  spiritless  sun.  At  length,  har 
vest  they  must,  for  October  approached. 
About  the  time  when  the  leaves  of  birches  and 
aspens  were  turning,  the  oats  and  the  wheat 
were  cut  and  carried  to  the  barn  under  a 
cloudless  sky,  but  without  rejoicing. 

The  yield  of  grain  was  poor  enough,  yet  the 
hay-crop  had  been  excellent,  so  that  the  year 
[123] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

as  a  whole  gave  occasion  neither  for  excess  of 
joy  nor  sorrow.  However,  it  was  long  before 
the  Chapdelaines,  in  evening  talk,  ceased  de 
ploring  the  unheard-of  August  droughts,  the 
unprecedented  September  frosts,  which  be 
trayed  their  hopes.  Against  the  miserly  short 
ness  of  the  summer  and  the  harshness  of  a 
climate  that  shows  no  mercy  they  did  not 
rebel,  were  even  without  a  touch  of  bitterness ; 
but  they  did  not  give  up  contrasting  the 
season  with  that  other  year  of  wonders  which 
fond  imagination  made  the  standard  of  their 
comparisons;  and  thus  was  ever  on  their  lips 
the  countryman's  perpetual  lament,  so  reason 
able  to  the  ear,  but  which  recurs  unfailingly: 
"Had  it  only  been  an  ordinary  year!" 


[124] 


CHAPTER  VIII 
ENTRENCHED  AGAINST  WINTER 


One  October  morning — 


CHAPTER  VIII 


ENTRENCHED  AGAINST  WINTER 

NE  October  morning  Maria's  first 
vision  on  arising  was  of  countless 
snow-flakes  sifting  lazily  from  the 
skies.  The  ground  was  covered, 
the  trees  white;  verily  it  seemed 
that  autumn  was  over,  when  in 
other  lands  it  had  scarce  begun. 

But  Edwige  Legare  thus  pronounced  sen 
tence:  "After  the  first  snowfall  there  is  yet  a 
month  before  winter  sets  in.  The  old  folks 
always  so  declared,  and  I  believe  it  myself." 
He  was  right;  for  in  two  days  a  rain  jarried 
off  the  snow  and  the  dark  soil  agakylay  bare. 
Still  the  warning  was  heeded,  and  they  set 
about  preparations;  the  yearly  defences 
against  the  snow  that  may  not  be  trifled  with, 
and  the  piercing  cold. 

Esdras  and  Da'Be  protected  the  foundation 
of  their  dwelling  with  earth  and  sand,  making 
an  embankment  at  the  foot  of  the  walls;  the 
other  men,  armed  with  hammer  and  nails, 
went  round  the  outside  of  the  house,  nailing 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

up,  closing  chinks,  remedying  as  best  they 
could  the  year's  wear  and  tear.  Within,  the 
women  forced  rags  into  the  crevices,  pasted 
upon  the  wainscotting  at  the  north-west  side 
old  newspapers  brought  from  the  village  and 
carefully  preserved,  tested  with  their  hands 
in  every  corner  for  draughts. 

These  things  accomplished,  the  next  task 
was  to  lay  in  the  winter's  store  of  wood.  Be 
yond  the  fields,  at  the  border  of  the  forest 
plenty  of  dead  trees  yet  were  standing.  Esdras 
and  Legare  took  ax  in  hand  and  felled  for 
three  days;  the  trunks  were  piled,  awaiting 
another  fall  of  snow  when  they  could  be 
loaded  on  the  big  wood-sleigh. 

All  through  October,  frosty  and  rainy  days 
came  alternately,  and  meanwhile  the  woods 
were  putting  on  a  dress  of  unearthly  loveli 
ness.  Five  hundred  paces  from  the  Chapde- 
laine  house  the  bank  of  the  Peribonka  fell 
steeply  to  the  rapid  water  and  the  huge  blocks 
of  stone  above  the  fall,  and  across  the  river 
the  opposite  bank  rose  in  the  fashion  of  a 
rocky  amphitheatre,  mounting  to  loftier 
heights — an  amphitheatre  trending  in  a  vast 
curve  to  the  northward.  Of  the  birches, 

[128] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

aspens,  alders  and  wild  cherries  scattered 
upon  the  slope,  October  made  splashes  of 
many-tinted  red  and  gold.  Throughout  these 
weeks  the  ruddy  brown  of  mosses,  the  change 
less  green  of  fir  and  cypress,  were  no  more  than 
a  background,  a  setting  only  for  the  ravishing 
colours  of  those  leaves  born  with  the  spring, 
that  perish  with  the  autumn.  The  wonder  of 
their  dying  spread  over  the  hills  and  unrolled 
itself,  an  endless  riband  following  the  river, 
ever  as  beautiful,  as  rich  in  shades  brilliant 
and  soft,  as  enrapturing,  when  they  passed 
into  the  remoteness  of  far  northern  regions 
and  were  unseen  by  human  eye. 

But  ere  long  there  sweeps  from  out  the  cold 
north  a  mighty  wind  like  a  final  sentence  of 
death,  the  cruel  ending  to  a  reprieve,  and  soon 
the  poor  leaves,  brown,  red  and  golden, 
shaken  too  unkindly,  strow  the  ground;  the 
snow  covers  them,  and  the  white  expanse  has 
only  for  adornment  the  sombre  green  of  trees 
that  alter  not  their  garb — triumphing  now,  as 
do  those  women  inspired  with  bitter  wisdom 
who  barter  thgk  right  to  beauty  for  life 
everlasting.  L/ 

In  November  Esdras,  Da'B6  and  Edwige 

[129] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Legare  went  off  again  to  the  shanties.  The 
father  and  Tit 'Be  harnessed  Charles  Eugene 
to  the  wood-sleigh,  and  laboured  at  hauling  in 
the  trees  that  had  been  cut,  and  piling  them 
near  the  house;  that  done,  the  two  men  took 
the  double-handed  saw  and  sawed,  sawed, 
sawed  from  morning  till  night;  it  was  then  the 
turn  of  the  axes,  and  the  logs  were  split  as 
their  size  required.  Nothing  remained  but  to 
cord  the  split  wood  in  the  shed  beside  the 
house,  where  it  was  sheltered  from  the  snow; 
the  huge  piles  mingling  the  resinous  cypress 
which  gives  a  quick  hot  flame,  spruce  and  red 
birch,  burning  steadily  and  longer,  close- 
grained  white  birch  with  its  marble-like 
surface,  slower  yet  to  be  consumed  and  leav 
ing  red  embers  in  the  morning  after  a  long 
winter's  night. 

The  moment  for  laying  in  wood  is  also  that 
of  the  slaughtering.  After  entrenching  against 
cold  comes  the  defence  against  hunger.  The 
quarters  of  pork  went  into  the  brine-tub ;  from 
a  beam  in  the  shed  there  hung  the  side  of  a 
fat  heifer — the  other  half  sold  to  people  in 
Honfleur — which  the  cold  would  keep  fresh 
till  spring;  sacks  of  flour  were  piled  in  a  corner 

[ISO] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

of  the  house,  and  Tit'Be,  provided  with  a 
spool  of  brass  wire,  set  himself  to  making 
nooses  for  hares. 

After  the  bustle  of  summer  they  relapsed 
into  easy-going  ways,  for  the  summer  is  pain 
fully  short  and  one  must  not  lose  a  single  hour 
of  those  precious  weeks  when  it  is  possible  to 
work  on  the  land,  whereas  the  winter  drags 
slowly  and  gives  all  too  much  tune  for  the 
tasks  it  brings. 

The  house  became  the  centre  of  the  uni 
verse;  in  truth  the  only  spot  where  life  could 
be  sustained,  and  more  than  ever  the  great 
cast-iron  stove  was  the  soul  of  it.  Every  little 
while  some  member  of  the  family  fetched  a 
couple  of  logs  from  under  the  staircase;  cy 
press  in  the  morning,  spruce  throughout  the 
day,  in  the  evening  birch,  pushing  them  in 
upon  the  live  coals.  Whenever  the  heat  failed, 
mother  Chapdelaine  might  be  heard  saying 
anxiously : — "  Don't  let  the  fire  out,  children." 
Whereupon  Maria,  Tit'Be  or  Telesphore 
would  open  the  little  door,  glance  in  and 
hasten  to  the  pile  of  wood. 

In  the  mornings  Tit'Be  jumped  out  of  bed 
long  before  daylight  to  see  if  the  great  sticks 
[lit] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

of  birch  had  done  their  duty  and  burned  all 
night;  should,  unluckily,  the  fire  be  out  he 
lost  no  time  in  rekindling  it  with  birch-bark 
and  cypress  branches,  placed  heavier  pieces 
on  the  mounting  flame,  and  ran  back  to 
snuggle  under  the  brown  woollen  blankets  and 
patchwork  quilt  till  the  comforting  warmth 
once  more  filled  the  house. 

Outside,  the  neighbouring  forest,  and  even 
the  fields  won  from  it,  were  an  alien  unfriendly 
world,  upon  which  they  looked  wonderingly 
through  the  little  square  windows.  And  some 
times  this  world  was  strangely  beautiful  in 
its  frozen  immobility,  with  a  sky  of  flawless 
blue  and  a  brilliant  sun  that  sparkled  on  the 
snow;  but  the  immaculateness  of  the  blue  and 
the  white  alike  was  pitiless  and  gave  hint  of 
the  murderous  cold. 

Days  there  were  when  the  weather  was 
tempered  and  the  snow  fell  straight  from  the 
clouds,  concealing  all;  the  ground  and  the  low 
growth  was  covered  little  by  little,  the  dark 
line  of  the  woods  was  hidden  behind  the 
curtain  of  serried  flakes.  Then  in  the  morning 
the  sky  was  clear  again,  but  the  fierce  north 
west  wind  swayed  the  heavens.  Powdery 
[I**] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

snow,  whipped  from  the  ground,  drove  across 
the  burnt  lands  and  the  clearings  in  bunding 
squalls,  and  heaped  itself  behind  whatever 
broke  the  force  of  the  gale.  To  the  south-east 
of  the  house  it  built  an  enormous  cone,  and 
between  house  and  stable  raised  a  drift  five 
feet  high  through  which  the  shovel  had  to 
carve  a  path ;  but  to  windward  the  ground  was 
bare,  scoured  by  the  persistent  blast. 

On  such  days  as  these  the  men  scarcely  left 
the  house  except  to  care  for  the  beasts,  and 
came  back  on  the  run,  their  faces  rasped  with 
the  cold  and  shining-wet  with  snow-crystals 
melted  by  the  heat  of  the  house.  Chapdelaine 
would  pluck  the  icicles  from  his  moustache, 
slowly  draw  off  his  sheepskin-lined  coat  and 
settle  himself  by  the  stove  with  a  satisfied 
sigh.  "The  pump  is  not  frozen?"  he  asks. 
"  Is  there  plenty  of  wood  in  the  house?" 

Assured  that  the  frail  wooden  fortress  is 
provided  with  water,  wood  and  food,  he  gives 
himself  up  to  the  indolences  of  winter  quar 
ters,  smoking  pipes  innumerable  while  the 
women-folk  are  busy  with  the  evening  meal. 
The  cold  snaps  the  nails  in  the  plank  walls 
with  reports  like  pistol-shots;  the  stove 

[133] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

crammed  with  birch  roars  lustily;  the  howling 
of  the  wind  witljout  is  like  the  cries  of  a 
besieging  host. 

"It  must  be  a  bad  day  in  the  woods!" 
thinks  Maria  to  herself;  and  then  perceives 
that  she  has  spoken  aloud. 

"In  the  woods  they  are  better  off  than  we 
are  here,"  answers  her  father.  "Up  there 
where  the  trees  stand  close  together  one  does 
not  feel  the  wind.  You  can  be  sure  that 
Esdras  and  Da'Be  are  all  right." 

"Yes?" 

But  it  was  not  of  Esdras  and  Da'Be  that  she 
had  just  been  thinking. 


[I34J 


CHAPTER  IX 
ONE  THOUSAND  AVES 


Since  the  coming  of  winter. 


CHAPTER  IX 
ONE  THOUSAND  AVES 


[NGE  the  coining  of  winter  they 
had  often  talked  at  the  Chapde- 
laines  about  the  holidays,  and 
now  these  were  drawing  near. 

"I  am  wondering  whether  we 
shall  have  any  callers  on  New 
Year's  Day,"  said  Madame  Ghapdelaine  one 
evening.  She  went  over  the  list  of  all  relatives 
and  friends  ahle  to  make  the  venture. 
"Azalma  Larouche  does  not  live  so  far  away, 
but  she — she  is  not  very  energetic.  The 
people  at  St.  Prime  would  not  care  to  take  the 
journey.  Possibly  Wilfrid  or  Ferdinand  might 
drive  from  St.  Gedeon  if  the  ice  on  the  lake 
were  in  good  condition."  A  sigh  disclosed  that 
she  still  was  dreaming  of  the  coming  and 
going  in  the  old  parishes  at  the  time  of  the 
New  Year,  the  family  dinners,  the  unlooked- 
for  visits  of  kindred  arriving  by  sleigh  from 
the  next  village,  buried  under  rugs  and  furs, 
behind  a  horse  whose  coat  was  white  with 

frost 

[137J 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Maria's  thoughts  were  turning  in  another 
direction.  "If  the  roads  are  as  bad  as  they 
were  last  year,"  said  she,  "we  shall  not  be 
able  to  attend  the  midnight  mass.  And  yet  I 
should  so  much  have  liked  it  this  time,  and 
father  promised  .  .  .  " 

Through  the  little  window  they  looked  on 
the  gray  sky,  and  found  little  to  cheer  them. 
To  go  to  midnight  mass  is  the  natural  and 
strong  desire  of  every  French-Canadian 
peasant,  even  of  those  living  farthest  from  the 
settlements.  What  do  they  not  face  to  accom 
plish  it!  Arctic  cold,  the  woods  at  night, 
obliterated  roads,  great  distances  do  but  add 
to  the  impressiveness  and  the  mystery.  This 
anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Jesus  is  more  to 
them  than  a  mere  fixture  in  the  calendar  with 
rites  appropriate;  it  signifies  the  renewed 
promise  of  salvation,  an  occasion  of  deep  re 
joicing,  and  those  gathered  in  the  wooden 
church  are  imbued  with  sincerest  fervour,  are 
pervaded  with  a  deep  sense  of  the  supernatu 
ral.  This  year,  more  than  ever,  Maria  yearned 
to  attend  the  mass  after  many  weeks  of  re 
moteness  from  houses  and  from  churches;  the 
favours  she  would  fain  demand  seemed  more 
[188? 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

likely  to  be  granted  were  she  able  to  prefer 
them  before  the  altar,  aided  in  heavenward 
flight  by  the  wings  of  music. 

But  toward  the  middle  of  December  much 
snow  fell,  dry  and  fine  as  dust,  and  three  days 
before  Christmas  the  north-west  wind  arose 
and  made  an  end  of  the  roads.  On  the  morrow 
of  the  storm  Chapdelaine  harnessed  Charles 
Eugene  to  the  heavy  sleigh  and  departed  with 
Tit'Be;  they  took  shovels  to  clear  the  way  or 
lay  out  another  route.  The  two  men  returned 
by  noon,  worn  out,  white  with  snow,  asserting 
that  there  would  be  no  breaking  through  for 
several  days.  The  disappointment  must  be 
borne;  Maria  sighed,  but  the  idea  came  to  her 
that  there  might  be  other  means  of  attaining 
the  divine  goodwill. 

"Is  it  true,  mother,"  she  asked  as  evening 
was  falling,  "that  if  you  repeat  a  thousand 
Aves  on  the  day  before  Christmas  you  are 
always  granted  the  thing  you  seek?" 

"Quite  true,"  her  mother  reverently  an 
swered.  "  One  desiring  a  favour  who  says  her 
thousand  Aves  properly  before  midnight  on 
Christmas  Eve,  very  seldom  fails  to  receive 
what  she  asks." 

[139J 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

On  Christmas  Eve  the  weather  was  cold  but 
windless.  The  two  men  went  out  betimes  in 
another  effort  to  beat  down  the  road,  with  no 
great  hope  of  success;  but  long  before  they 
left,  and  indeed  long  before  daylight,  Maria 
began  to  recite  her  Aves.  Awakening  very 
early,  she  took  her  rosary  from  beneath  the 
pillow  and  swiftly  repeated  the  prayer,  pass 
ing  from  the  last  word  to  the  first  without 
stopping,  and  counting,  bead  by  bead. 

The  others  were  still  asleep;  but  Ghien  left 
his  place  at -the  stove  when  he  saw  that  she 
moved,  and  came  to  sit  beside  the  bed, 
gravely  reposing  his  head  upon  the  coverings. 
Maria's  glance  wandered  over  the  long  white 
muzzle  resting  upon  the  brown  wool,  the 
liquid  eyes  filled  with  the  dumb  creature's 
pathetic  trustfulness,  the  drooping  glossy 
ears;  while  she  ceased  not  to  murmur 
the  sacred  words: — "Hail  Mary,  full  of 
grace  .  .  .  " 

Soon  Tit'Be  jumped  from  bed  to  put  wood 
upon  the  fire;  an  impulse  of  shyness  caused 
Maria  to  turn  away  and  hide  her  rosary  under 
the  coverlet  as  she  continued  to  pray.  The 
stove  roared;  Chien  went  back  to  his  usual 
[140] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

spot,  and  for  another  half-hour  nothing  was 
stirring  in  the  house  save  the  fingers  of  Maria 
numbering  the  boxwood  beads,  and  her  lips  as 
they  moved  rapidly  in  the  task  she  had  laid 
upon  herself. 

Then  must  she  arise,  for  the  day  was  dawn 
ing;  make  the  porridge  and  the  pancakes 
while  the  men  went  to  the  stable  to  care  for 
the  animals,  wait  upon  them  when  they 
returned,  wash  the  dishes,  sweep  the  house. 
What  time  she  attended  to  these  things, 
Maria  was  ever  raising  a  little  higher  toward 
heaven  the  monument  of  her  Aves;  but  the 
rosary  had  to  be  laid  aside  and  it  was  hard 
to  keep  a  true  reckoning.  As  the  morning 
advanced  however,  no  urgent  duty  calling, 
she  was  able  to  sit  by  the  window  and 
steadily  pursue  her  undertaking. 

Noon;  and  already  three  hundred  Aves. 
Her  anxiety  lessens,  for  now  she  feels  almost 
sure  of  finishing  in  time.  It  comes  to  her  mind 
that  fasting  would  give  a  further  title  to  heav 
enly  consideration,  and  might,  with  reason, 
turn  hopes  into  certainties;  wherefore  she  ate 
but  little,  foregoing  all  those  things  she  liked 
the  best. 

[14U 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Throughout  the  afternoon  she  must  knit  the 
woollen  garment  designed  for  her  father  as  a 
New  Year's  gift,  and  though  the  faithful  repe 
tition  ceased  not,  the  work  of  her  fingers  was 
something  of  a  distraction  and  a  delay;  then 
came  the  long  preparations  for  supper,  and 
finally  Tit'Be  brought  his  mittens  to  be 
mended,  so  all  this  tune  the  Aves  made  slow 
and  impeded  progress,  like  some  devout  pro 
cession  brought  to  halt  by  secular-interruption. 

But  when  it  was  evening  and  the  tasks  of 
the  day  were  done,  she  could  resume  her  seat 
by  the  window  where  the  feeble  light  of  the 
lamp  did  not  invade  the  darkness,  look  forth 
upon  the  fields  hidden  beneath  their  icy 
cloak,  take  the  rosary  once  more  in  her  hands 
and  throw  her  heart  into  the  prayer.  She  was 
happy  that  so  many  Aves  were  left  to  be 
recited,  since  labour  and  difficulty  could  only 
add  merit  to  her  endeavour;  even  did  she 
wish  to  humble  herself  further  and  give  force 
to  her  prayer  by  some  posture  that  would 
bring  uneasiness  and  pain,  by  some  chasten 
ing  of  the  flesh. 

Her  father  and  Tit'Be  smoked,  their  feet 
against  the  stove;  her  mother  sewed  new  ties 

[142] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

to  old  moose-hide  moccasins.  Outside,  the 
moon  had  risen,  flooding  the  chill  whiteness 
with  colder  light,  and  the  heavens  were  of  a 
marvellous  purity  and  depth,  sown  with  stars 
that  shone  like  that  wondrous  star  of  old. 
"  Blessed  art  Thou  amongst  women  .  .  ." 
Through  repeating  the  short  prayer  often 
times  and  quickly  she  grew  confused  and 
sometimes  stopped,  her  dazed  mind  lost 
among  the  well-known  words.  It  is  only  for  a 
moment;  sighing  she  closes  her  eyes,  and  the 
phrase  which  rises  at  once  to  her  memory  and 
her  lips  ceases  to  be  mechanical,  detaches 
itself,  again  stands  forth  in  all  its  hallowed 
meaning. 

"  Blessed  art  Thou  amongst  women  .  .  ." 
At  length  a  heaviness  weighs  upon  her,  and 
the  holy  words  are  spoken  with  greater  effort 
and  slowly;  yet  the  beads  pass  through  her 
fingers  in  endless  succession,  and  each  one 
launches  the  offering  of  an  Ave  to  that  sky 
where  Mary  the  compassionate  is  surely 
seated  on  her  throne,  hearkening  to  the  music 
of  prayers  that  ever  rise,  and  brooding  over 
the  memory  of  that  blest  night. 
"The  Lord  is  with  Thee  ..." 

[143] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

The  fence-rails  were  very  black  upon  the 
white  expanse  palely  lighted  by  the  moon; 
trunks  of  birch  trees  standing  against  the  dark 
background  of  forest  were  like  the  skeletons 
of  living  creatures  smitten  with  the  cold  and 
stricken  by  death;  but  the  glacial  night  was 
awesome  rather  than  affrighting. 

"With  the  roads  as  they  are  we  will  not  be 
the  only  ones  who  have  to  stay  at  home  this 
evening,"  said  Madame  Chapdelaine.  "But 
is  there  anything  more  lovely  than  the  mid 
night  mass  at  Saint  Goeur  de  Marie,  with 
Yvonne  Boilly  playing  the  harmonium,  and 
Pacifique  Simard  who  sings  the  Latin  so 
beautifully!"  She  was  very  careful  to  say 
nothing  that  might  seem  reproachful  or 
complaining  on  such  a  night  as  this,  but  in 
spite  of  herself  the  words  and  tone  had  a  sad 
ring  of  loneliness  and  remoteness.  Her  hus 
band  noticed  it,  and,  himself  under  the 
influence  of  the  day,  was  quick  to  take  the 
blame. 

"It  is  true  enough,  Laura,  that  you  would 
have  had  a  happier  life  with  some  other  man 
than  me,  who  lived  on  a  comfortable  farm, 
near  the  settlements." 

[144] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"No,  Samuel;  what  the  good  God  does  is 
always  right.  I  grumble  ...  Of  course  I 
grumble.  Is  there  anyone  who  hasn't  some 
thing  to  grumble  about?  But  we  have  never 
been  unhappy,  we  two;  we  have  managed  to 
live  without  faring  over-badly;  the  boys  are 
fine  boys,  hard-working,  who  bring  us  nearly 
all  they  earn;  Maria  too  is  a  good  girl  ..." 

Affected  by  these  memories  of  the  past, 
they  also  were  thinking  of  the  candles  already 
lit,  of  the  hymns  soon  to  be  raised  in  honour 
of  the  Saviour's  birth.  Life  had  always  been 
a  simple  and  a  straightforward  thing  for 
them;  severe  but  inevitable  toil,  a  good 
understanding  between  man  and  wife,  obedi 
ence  alike  to  the  laws  of  nature  and  of  the 
Church.  Everything  was  drawn  into  the  same 
woof;  the  rites  of  then'  religion  and  the  daily 
routine  of  existence  so  woven  together  that 
they  could  not  distinguish  the  devout  emotion 
possessing  them  from  the  mute  love  of  each 
for  each. 

Little  Alma  Rose  heard  praises  in  the  air 
and  hastened  to  demand  her  portion.  "  I  have 
been  a  good  girl  too,  haven't  I,  father?" 
[145] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"Certainly  .  .  .  Certainly.  A  black  sin 
indeed  if  one  were  naughty  on  the  day  when 
the  little  Jesus  was  born." 

To  the  children,  Jesus  of  Nazareth  was  ever 
"the  little  Jesus,"  the  curly-headed  babe  of 
the  sacred  picture;  and  in  truth,  for  the 
parents  as  well,  such  was  the  image  oftenest 
brought  to  mind  by  the  Name.  Not  the  sad 
enigmatic  Christ  of  the  Protestant,  but  a 
being  more  familiar  and  less  august,  a  new 
born  infant  in  his  mother's  arms,  or  at  least  a 
tiny  child  who  might  be  loved  without  great 
effort  of  the  mind  or  any  thought  of  the 
coming  sacrifice. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  rock  you?" 

"Yes." 

He  took  the  little  girl  on  his  knees  and 
began  to  swing  her  back  and  forth. 

"And  are  we  going  to  sing  too?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well;  now  sing  with  me:" 

Dans  son  etable, 
Que  Jesus  est  charmant! 

Qu'il  est  aimable 
Dans  son  abaissemont  .  .  . 

He  began  in  quiet  tones  that  he  might  not 
drown  the  other  slender  voice;  but  soon  emo- 
[140] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

tion  carried  him  away  and  he  sang  with  all  his 
might,  his  gaze  dreamy  and  remote.  Teles- 
phore  drew  near  and  looked  at  him  with 
worshipping  eyes.  To  these  children  brought 
up  in  a  lonely  house,  with  only  their  parents 
for  companions,  Samuel  Chapdelaine  embod 
ied  all  there  was  in  the  world  of  wisdom  and 
might.  As  he  was  ever  gentle  and  patient, 
always  ready  to  take  the  children  on  his  knee 
and  sing  them  hymns,  or  those  endless  old 
songs  he  taught  them  one  by  one,  they  loved 
him  with  a  rare  affection. 

.  .  .  Tous  les  palais  des  rois 

N'ont  rien  de  comparable 

Aux  beautes  que  je  vois 
Dans  cette  etable. 

"Once  more?  Very  well." 
This  time  the  mother  and  Tit'Be  joined  in. 
Maria  could  not  resist  staying  her  prayers  for 
a  few  moments  that  she  might  look  and  hear 
ken;  but  the  words  of  the  hymn  renewed  her 
ardour,  and  she  soon  took  up  the  task  again 
with  a  livelier  faith  .  .  .  "Hail  Mary,  full 
of  grace  .  .  . " 

Trois  gros  navires  sont  arrives, 
Charges  d'avoine,  charges  de  ble. 
Nous  irons  sur  1'eau  nous  y  prom-promener, 
Nous  irons  jouer  dans  Tile  .  .  . 
[147] 


MARIA          CHAPPELAINE 

"And  now?  Another  song:  which?"  With 
out  waiting  for  a  reply  he  struck  in  ... 

"No?  not  that  one  .  .  .  Claire  Fontaine? 
Ah!  That's  a  beautiful  one,  that  is!  We  shall 
all  sing  it  together." 

He  glanced  at  Maria,  but  seeing  the  beads 
ever  slipping  through  her  fingers  he  would  not 

intrude. 

A  la  claire  fontaine 

M'en  allant  promener, 

J'ai  trouve  1'eau  si  belle 

Que  je  m'y  suis  baigne  .  .  . 
II  y  a  longtemps  que  je  t'aime, 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai.  .  . 

Words  and  tune  alike  haunting;  the  un 
affected  sadness  of  the  refrain  lingering  in  the 
ear,  a  song  that  well  may  find  its  way  to  any 

heart. 

.  .     Sur  la  plus  haute  branche, 
Le  rossignol  chantait. 
Chante,  rossignol,  chante, 
Toi  qui  a  le  coeur  gai  .  .  . 
II  y  a  longtemps  que  je  t'aime 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai  .  .  . 

The  rosary  lay  still  in  the  long  fingers. 
Maria  did  not  sing  with  the  others;  but  she 
was  listening,  and  this  lament  of  a  love  that 
was  unhappy  fell  very  sweetly  and  movingly 
on  her  spirit  a  little  weary  with  prayer. 

[148] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

.  .  .  Tu  as  le  cceur  a  rire, 

Moi  je  1'ai  a  pleurer, 

J'ai  perdu  ma  maitresse 

Sans  pouvoir  la  r'trouver, 

Pour  un  bouquet  de  roses 

Que  je  lui  refusal 
II  y  a  longtemps  que  je  t'aime, 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai. 

Maria  looked  through  the  window  at  the 
white  fields  circled  by  mysterious  forest;  the 
passion  of  religious  feeling,  the  tide  of  young 
love  rising  within  her,  the  sound  of  the  famil 
iar  voices,  fused  in  her  heart  to  a  single  emo 
tion.  Truly  the  world  was  filled  with  love 
that  evening,  with  love  human  and  divine, 
simple  in  nature  and  mighty  in  strength,  one 
and  the  other  most  natural  and  right;  so  inter 
mingled  that  the  beseeching  of  heavenly 
favour  upon  dear  ones  was  scarcely  more  than 
the  expression  of  an  earthly  affection,  while 
the  artless  love  songs  were  chanted  with 
solemnity  of  voice  and  exaltation  of  spirit  fit 
for  addresses  to  another  world. 

.  .     Je  voudrais  que  la  rose 

Fut  encore  au  rosier, 

Et  que  le  rosier  meme 

A  la  mer  fut  jete. 
II  y  a  longtemps,  que  je  t'aime, 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai     .  . 
(1491 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"Hail  Mary,  full  of  grace  ..." 

The  song  ended,  Maria  forthwith  resumed 
her  prayers  with  zeal  refreshed,  and  once 
again  the  tale  of  the  Aves  mounted. 

Little  Alma  Rose,  asleep  on  her  father's 
knee,was  undressed  and  put  to  bed;  Telesphore 
followed;  Tit'Be  arose  in  turn,  stretched  him 
self,  and  filled  the  stove  with  green  hirch  logs; 
the  father  made  a  last  trip  to  the  stable  and 
came  back  running,  saying  that  the  cold  was 
increasing.  Soon  all  had  retired,  save  Maria. 

"You  won't  forget  to  put  out  the  lamp?" 

"No,  father." 

Forthwith  she  quenched  the  light,  prefer 
ring  it  so,  and  seated  herself  again  by  the 
window  to  repeat  the  last  Aves.  When  she 
had  finished,  a  scruple  assailed  her,  and  a  fear 
lest  she  had  erred  in  the  reckoning,  because  it 
had  not  always  been  possible  to  count  the 
beads  of  her  rosary.  Out  of  prudence  she 
recited  yet  another  fifty  and  then  was  silent — 
jaded,  weary,  but  full  of  happy  confidence,  as 
though  the  moment  had  brought  her  a  prom 
ise  inviolable. 

The  world  outside  was  lit;  wrapped  hi  that 
frore  splendour  which  the  night  unrolls  over 

[150] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

lands  of  snow  when  the  sky  is  clear  and  the 
moon  is  shining.  Within  the  house  was  dark 
ness,  and  it  seemed  that  wood  and  field  had 
illumined  themselves  to  signal  the  coming  of 
the  holy  hour. 

"  The  thousand  Aves  have  been  said,"  mur 
mured  Maria  to  herself,  "but  I  have  not  yet 
asked  for  anything  .  .  .  not  in  words." 
She  had  thought  that  perhaps  it  were  not 
needful;  that  the  Divinity  might  understand 
without  hearing  wishes  shaped  by  lips — Mary 
above  all  ...  Who  had  been  a  woman 
upon  earth.  But  at  the  last  her  simple  mind 
was  taken  with  a  doubt,  and  she  tried  to  find 
speech  for  the  favour  she  was  seeking. 

Francois  Paradis  .  .  .  Most  surely  it 
concerns  Frangois  Paradis.  Hast  Thou  al 
ready  guessed  it,  0  Mary,  full  of  grace?  How 
might  she  frame  this  her  desire  without 
impiety?  That  he  should  be  spared  hardship 
in  the  woods  .  .  .  That  he  should  be  true  to 
his  word  and  give  up  drinking  and  swearing 
.  .  .  That  he  return  in  the  spring  .  .  . 

That  he  return  in  the  spring  .  .  .  She 
goes  no  further,  for  it  seems  to  her  that  when 
he  is  with  her  again,  his  promise  kept,  all  the 

[151] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

happiness  in  the  world  must  be  within  their 
reach,  unaided  .  .  .  almost  unaided  .  .  . 
If  it  be  not  presumptuous  so  to  think  .  .  . 
That  he  return  in  the  spring  .  .  .  Dream 
ing  of  his  return,  of  Frangois,  the  handsome 
sunburnt  face  turned  to  hers,  Maria  forgets 
all  else,  and  looks  long  with  unseeing  eyes  at 
the  snow-covered  ground  which  the  moonlight 
has  turned  into  a  glittering  fabric  of  ivory  and 
mother-of-pearl — at  the  black  pattern  of  the 
fences  outlined  upon  it,  and  the  menacing 
ranks  of  the  dark  forest. 


[152] 


CHAPTER  X 
STRAYING  TRACKS 


New  Year's  Day,  and. 


CHAPTER  X 
STRAYING  TRACKS 

EW  YEAR'S  DAY,   and  not  a 

single  caller!  Toward  evening  the 
mother  of  the  family,  a  trifle  cast 
down,  hid  her  depression  behind  a 
mask  of  extra  cheeriness.  "Even 
if  no  one  comes,"  said  she,  "that 
is  no  reason  for  allowing  ourselves  to  be 
unhappy.  We  are  going  to  make  la  tire." 

The  children  exclaimed  with  delight,  and 
followed  the  preparations  with  impatient 
eyes.  Molasses  and  brown  sugar  were  set  on 
the  stove  to  boil,  and  when  this  had  proceeded 
far  enough  Telesphore  brought  in  a  large  dish 
of  lovely  white  snow.  They  all  gathered  about 
the  table  as  a  few  drops  of  the  boiling  syrup 
were  allowed  to  fall  upon  the  snow  where  they 
instantly  became  crackly  bubbles,  deliciously 
cold. 

Each  was  helped  in  turn,  the  big  people 
making  a  merry  pretence  of  the  children's 
unfeigned  greed;  but  soon,  and  very  wisely, 
the  tasting  was  checked,  that  appetite  might 

[155] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINB 

not  be  in  peril  for  the  real  la  tire,  the  confec 
tion  of  which  had  only  begun.  After  further 
cooking,  and  just  at  the  proper  moment,  the 
cooling  toffee  must  be  pulled  for  a  long  time. 
The  mother's  strong  hands  plied  unceasingly 
for  five  minutes,  folding  and  drawing  out  the 
sugary  skein;  the  movement  became  slower 
and  slower,  until,  stretched  for  the  last  time 
to  the  thickness  of  a  finger,  it  was  cut  into 
lengths  with  scissors — not  too  easily,  for  it 
was  already  hard.  The  la  tire  was  made. 

The  children  were  busy  with  then*  first  por 
tions,  when  a  knocking  was  heard  on  the  door. 
"Eutrope  Gagnon,"  at  once  declared  Ghapde- 
laine.  "I  was  just  saying  to  myself  that  it 
would  be  an  odd  thing  if  he  did  not  come  and 
spend  the  evening  with  us." 

Eutrope  Gagnon  it  was  hi  truth.  Entering, 
he  bade  them  all  good  evening,  and  laid  his 
woollen  cap  upon  the  table.  Maria  looked  at 
him,  a  blush  upon  her  cheek.  Custom  ordains 
that  on  the  first  day  of  the  year  the  young 
men  shall  kiss  the  women-folk,  and  Maria 
knew  well  enough  that  Eutrope,  shy  as  he  was, 
would  exercise  his  privilege;  she  stood  motion 
less  by  the  table,  unprotesting,  yet  thinking  of 

[156] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

another  kiss  she  would  have  dearly  welcomed. 
But  the  young  man  took  the  chair  offered 
him  and  sat  down,  his  eyes  upon  the  floor. 

"You  are  the  only  visitor  who  has  come  our 
way  to-day,"  said  Ghapdelaine,  "and  I  sup 
pose  you  have  seen  no  one  either.  I  felt 
pretty  certain  you  would  be  here  this  evening." 

"Naturally  ...  I  would  not  let  New 
Year's  Day  go  by  without  paying  you  a  visit. 
But,  besides  that,  I  have  news  to  tell." 

"News?" 

Under  the  questioning  eyes  of  the  house 
hold  he  did  not  raise  his  eyes. 

"By  your  face  I  am  afraid  you  have  bad 


news." 


"Yes." 

With  a  start  of  fear  the  mother  half  rose. 
"Not  about  the  boys?" 

"No,  Madame  Chapdelaine.  Esdras  and 
Da'Be  are  well,  if  that  be  God's  pleasure.  The 
word  I  bring  is  not  of  them — not  of  your  own 
kin.  It  concerns  a  young  man  you  know." 
Pausing  a  moment  he  spoke  a  name  under  his 
breath: — "Frangois  Paradis." 

His  glance  was  lifted  to  Maria  and  as 
quickly  fell,  but  she  did  not  so  much  as  see 
[157] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

his  look  of  honest  distress.  Deep  stillness 
weighed  upon  the  house — upon  the  whole 
universe.  Everything  alive  and  dead  was 
breathlessly  awaiting  news  of  such  dreadful 
moment — touching  him  that  was  for  her  the 
one  man  in  all  the  world  .  .  . 

"This  is  what  happened.  You  knew  per 
haps  that  he  was  foreman  in  a  shanty  above 
La  Tuque,  on  the  Vermilion  River.  About  the 
middle  of  December  he  suddenly  told  the  boss 
that  he  was  going  off  to  spend  Christmas  and 
New  Year  at  Lake  St.  John — up  here.  The 
boss  objected,  naturally  enough;  for  if  the 
men  take  ten  or  fifteen  days'  leave  right  in 
the  middle  of  the  winter  you  might  as  well 
stop  the  work  altogether.  The  boss  did  not 
wish  him  to  go  and  said  so  plainly;  but  you 
know  Francois — a  man  not  be  thwarted 
when  a  notion  entered  his  head.  He  answered 
that  he  was  set  on  going  to  the  lake  for  the 
holidays,  and  that  go  he  would.  Then  the 
boss  let  him  have  his  way,  afraid  to  lose  a  man 
useful  beyond  the  common,  and  of  such  expe 
rience  in  the  bush." 

Eutrope  Gagnon  was  speaking  with  unusual 
ease,  slowly,  but  without  seeking  words,  as 

[158] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

though  his  story  had  been  shaped  beforehand. 
Amid  her  overwhelming  grief  the  thought 
flitted  through  Maria's  heart: — "Francois 
wished  to  come  here  ...  to  me,"  and  a 
fugitive  joy  touched  it  as  a  swallow  in  flight 
ruffles  the  water  with  his  wing. 

"  The  shanty  was  not  very  far  in  the  woods, 
only  two  days' journey  from  the  Transconti 
nental  which  passes  La  Tuque.  But  as  the  luck 
was,  something  had  happened  to  the  line  and 
the  trains  were  not  running.1  I  heard  all  this 
through  Johnny  Niquette  of  St.  Henri,  who 
arrived  from  La  Tuque  two  days  ago." 

"Yes.") 

"When  Frangois  found  that  he  could  not 
take  the  train  he  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  in 
that  sort  of  a  humour  said  that  as  it  was  a  case 
of  walking  he  would  walk  all  the  way — reach 
ing  the  lake  by  following  the  rivers,  first  the 
Croche  and  then  the  Ouatchouan  which  falls 
in  near  Roberval." 

"  That  is  so,"  said  Chapdelaine.  "  It  can  be 
done.  I  have  gone  that  way." 

"Not  at  this  time  of  year,  Mr.  Chapdelaine, 
certainly  not  just  at  this  time.  Everyone 
there  told  Francois  that  it  would  be  foolhardy 

[159] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

to  attempt  such  a  trip  in  midwinter,  about 
Christmas,  with  the  cold  as  great  as  it  was, 
some  four  feet  of  snow  lying  in  the  woods,  and 
alone.  But  he  only  laughed  and  told  them 
that  he  was  used  to  the  woods  and  that  a  little 
difficulty  was  not  going  to  frighten  him,  be 
cause  he  was  bound  to  get  to  the  upper  side  of 
the  lake  for  the  holidays,  and  that  where  the 
Indians  were  able  to  cross  he  could  make  the 
crossing  too.  Only — you  know  it  very  well, 
Mr.  Chapdelaine — when  the  Indians  take 
that  journey  it  is  in  company,  and  with  their 
dogs.  Francois  set  off  alone,  on  snow-shoes, 
pulling  his  blankets  and  provisions  on  a 
toboggan." 

No  one  had  uttered  a  word  to  hasten  or 
check  the  speaker.  They  listened  as  to  him 
whose  story's  end  stalks  into  view,  before  the 
eyes  but  darkly  veiled,  like  a  figure  drawing 
near  who  hides  his  face. 

"You  will  remember  the  weather  a  week 
before  Christmas — the  heavy  snow  that  fell, 
and  after  it  the  nor'west  gale.  It  happened 
that  Frangois  was  then  in  the  great  burnt 
lands,  where  the  fine  snow  drives  and  drifts  so 
terribly.  In  such  a  place  the  best  of  men  have 

[160] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

little  chance  when  it  is  very  cold  and  the  storm 
lasts.  And,  if  you  recall  it,  the  nor  'wester  was 
blowing  for  three  days  on  end,  stiff  enough  to 
flay  you." 

"Yes,  and  then?" 

The  narrative  he  had  framed  did  not  carry 
him  further,  or  perhaps  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  speak  the  final  words,  for  it  was 
some  time  before  the  low-voiced  answer 
came:— "He  went  astray  .  .  ." 
\Those  who  have  passed  their  lives  within 
the  shadow  of  the  Canadian  forests  know  the 
meaning  but  too  well.  The  daring  youths  to 
whom  this  evil  fortune  happens  in  the  woods, 
who  go  astray — are  lost — but  seldom  return. 
Sometimes  a  search-party  finds  their  bodies 
in  the  spring,  after  the  melting  of  the  snows. 
In  Quebec,  and  above  all  in  the  far  regions  of 
the  north,  the  very  word,  ecarte,  has  taken  on 
a  new  and  sinister  import,  from  the  peril  over 
hanging  him  who  loses  his  way,  fbr  a  short 
day  only,  in  that  limitless  forest.  •/ 

"He  went  astray  .  .  .  The  &torm  caught 
him  in  the  burnt  country  and  he  halted  for  a 
day.  So  much  we  know,  for  the  Indians 
found  a  shelter  of  fir  branches  he  had  made 

[161] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

for  himself,  and  they  saw  his  tracks.  He  set 
out  again  because  his  provisions  were  low  and 
he  was  in  haste  to  reach  the  end  of  his  journey, 
as  I  suppose;  but  the  weather  did  not  mend, 
snow  was  falling,  the  nor'west  wind  never 
eased,  and  it  is  likely  he  caught  no  glimpse  of 
the  sun  to  guide  him,  for  the  Indians  said  that 
his  tracks  turned  off  from  the  river  Croche 
which  he  had  been  following  and  wandered 
away,  straight  to  the  north.'* 

There  was  no  further  speech;  neither  from 
the  two  men  who  had  listened  with  assenting 
motions  of  their  heads  while  they  followed 
every  turn  of  Eutrope's  grim  story;  nor  from 
the  mother  whose  hands  were  clasped  upon 
her  knees,  a^  in  a  belated  supplication;  nor 
from  Maria  . )  .  . 

"When  they  heard  this,  men  from  Ouat- 
chouan  set  forth  after  the  weather  was  a  little 
better.  But  all  his  footsteps  were  covered, 
and  they  returned  saying  that  they  had  found 
no  trace;  that  was  three  days  ago  ...  He 
is  lost  .  v^ 

The  listeners  stirred,  and  broke  the  stillness 
with  a  sigh;  the  tale  was  told,  nor  was  there 
a  word  that  anyone  might  speak.  The  fate  of 

[162] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Francois  Paradis  was  as  mournfully  sure  as 
though  he  were  buried  in  the  cemetery  at  St. 
Michel  de  Mistassini  to  the  sound  ofcrianls, 
with  the  blessing  of  a  priest. 

Silence  fell  upon  the  house  and  all  within  it. 
Ghapdelaine  was  leaning  forward,  elbows  on 
his  knees,  his  face  working,  mechanically 
striking  one  fist  upon  the  other.  At  length  he 
spoke:— "It  shows  we  are  but  little  children 
in  the  hand  of  the  good  God.  Francois  was 
one  of  the  best  men  of  these  parts  in  the 
woods,  and  at  finding  his  way;  people  who 
came  here  used  to  take  him  as  guide,  and 
always  did  he  bring  them  back  without  mis 
hap.  And  now  he  himself  is  lost.  We  are  but 
little  children.  Some  there  be  who  think 
themselves  pretty  strong — able  to  'get  on 
without  God's  help  in  their  houses  and  on 
their  lands  .  .  .  but  in  the  bush  .  .  ." 
With  solemn  voice  and  slowly-moving  head  he 
repeated:  "We  are  but  little  children." 

"A  good  man  he  was,"  said  Eutrope 
Gagnon,  "in  very  truth  a  good  man,  strong 
and  brave,  with  ill-will  to  none." 

"  Indeed  that  is  true.  I  am  not  saying  that 
the  good  God  had  cause  to  send  him  to  his 

[163] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

death — him  more  than  another.  He  was  a 
fine  fellow,  hard-working,  and  I  loved  him 
well.  But  it  shows  you  .  .  . " 

"No  one  ever  had  a  thing  against  him." 
Eutrope's  generous  insistence  carried  him  on. 
"A  man  hard  to  match  for  work,  afraid  of 
nothing  and  obliging  withal.  Everyone  who 
knew  him  was  fond  of  him — you  will  not  find 
his  like." 

Raising  his  eyes  to  Maria  he  repeated  with 
emphasis: — "He  was  a  good  man,  you  will 
not  find  his  like." 

"When  we  were  at  Mistassini,"  began 
Madame  Chapdelaine,  "seven  years  ago, 
he  was  only  a  lad,  but  very  strong  and 
quick  and  as  tall  as  he  is  now — I  mean  as  he 
was  when  he  came  here  last  summer.  Always 
good-natured,  too.  No  one  could  help  liking 
him." 

They  all  looked  straight  before  them  in 
speaking,  and  yet  what  they  said  seemed  to 
be  for  Maria  alone,  as  if  the  dear  secret  of  her 
heart  were  open  to  them.  But  she  spoke  not, 
nor  moved,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  frosted 
panes  of  the  little  window,  impenetrable  as 
the  wall. 

[164] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

Eutrope  Gagnon  did  not  linger.  The  Chap- 
delaines,  left  to  themselves,  were  long  without 
speech.  At  last  the  father  said  in  a  halting 
voice: — "Frangois  Paradis  was  almost  alone 
in  the  world;  now,  as  we  all  had  an  affection 
for  him,  we  perhaps  might  have  a  mass  or  two 
said.  What  do  you  think,  Laura?" 

"Yes  indeed.  Three  high  masses  with 
music,  and  when  the  boys  return  from  the 
woods— in  health,  if  such  be  the  will  of  the 
good  God — three  more  for  the  repose  of  his 
soul,  poor  lad!  And  every  Sunday  we  shall 
say  a  prayer  for  him." 

"He  was  like  the  rest  of  us,"  Ghapdelaine 
continued,  "not  without  fault,  of  course,  but 
kindly  and  well-living.  God  and  the  Holy 
Virgin  will  have  pity  on  him." 

Again  silence.  Maria  well  knew  it  was  tor 
her  they  said  these  things — aware  of  her  grief 
and  seeking  to  assuage  it;  but  she  was  not 
able  to  speak,  either  to  praise  the  dead  or 
utter  her  sorrow.  A  hand  had  fastened  upon 
her  throat,  stifling  her,  as  the  narrative  un 
folded  and  the  end  loomed  inevitable;  and 
now  this  hand  found  its  way  into  her  breast 
and  was  crushing  her  heart.  Presently  she 

[165] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

would  know  a  yet  more  intolerable  pain,  but 
now  she  only  felt  the  deadly  grasp  of  those 
five  fingers  closed  about  her  heart. 

Other  words  were  said,  but  they  scarce 
reached  her  ear;  then  came  the  familiar 
evening  stir  of  preparation  for  the  night,  the 
father's  departure  on  a  last  visit  to  the  stable 
and  his  swift  return,  face  red  with  the  cold, 
slamming  the  door  hastily  in  a  swirl  of  frosty 
vapour. 

"Come,  Maria."  The  mother  called  her 
very  gently,  and  laid  a  hand  upon  her 
shoulder.  She  rose  and  went  to  kneel  and 
pray  with  the  others.  Voice  answered  to 
voice  for  ten  minutes,  murmuring  the  sacred 
words  in  low  monotone. 

The  usual  prayer  at  an  end,  the  mother 
whispered: — "Yet  five  Paters  and  five  Aves 
for  the  souls  of  those  who  have  suffered  mis 
fortune  in  the  forest."  And  the  voices  again 
rose,  this  time  more  subdued,  breaking 
sometimes  to  a  sob. 

When  they  were  silent,  and  all  had  risen 
after  the  last  sign  of  the  cross,  Maria  went 
back  to  the  window.  The  frost  upon  the  panes 
made  of  them  so  many  fretted  squares 

[166] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

through  which  the  eye  could  not  penetrate, 
shutting  away  the  outside  world;  but  Maria 
saw  them  not,  for  the  tears  welled  to  her  eyes 
and  blinded  her.  She  stood  there  motionless, 
with  arms  hanging  piteously  by  her  side,  a 
stricken  figure  of  grief;  then  a  sudden  anguish 
yet  keener  and  more  unbearable  seized  upon 
her;  blindly  she  opened  the  door  and  went  out 
upon  the  step. 

The  world  that  lay  beyond  the  threshold, 
sunk  in  moveless  white  repose,  was  of  an  im 
mense  serenity;  but  when  Maria  passed  from 
the  sheltering  walls  the  cold  smote  her  like 
the  hungry  blade  of  a  sword  and  the  forest 
leaped  toward  her  in  menace,  its  inscrutable 
face  concealing  a  hundred  dreadful  secrets 
which  called  aloud  to  her  in  lamentable 
voices.  With  a  little  moan  she  drew  back,  and 
closing  the  door  sat  shivering  beside  the  stove. 
Numbness  was  yielding,  sorrow  taking  on  an 
edge,  and  the  hand  that  clutched  her  heart  set 
itself  to  devising  new  agonies,  each  one 
subtler  and  more  cruel  than  the  last. 

How  he  must  have  suffered,  far  off  there 
amid  the  snows!  So  thought  she,  as  still  her 
own  face  remembered  the  sting  of  the  bitter 

[167] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

air.  Men  threatened  by  this  fate  had  told  her 
that  death  coming  in  such  a  guise  smote  with 
gentle  and  painless  hand — a  hand  that  merely 
lulled  to  sleep;  but  she  could  not  make  herself 
believe  it,  and  all  the  sufferings  that  Frangois 
might  have  endured  before  giving  up  and 
falling  to  the  white  ground  passed  before  her 
eyes. 

No  need  for  her  to  see  the  spot ;  too  m;ll  she 
knew  the  winter  terrors  of  tne  great  forest,  the 
snow  heaped  to  the  firs'  lower  branches,  alders 
almost  buried  beneath  it,  birches  and  aspens 
naked  as  skeletons  and  shuddering  in  the  icy 
wind,  a  sunless  sky  above  the  massed  and 
gloomy  spires  of  green.  She  sees  Frangois 
making  his  way  through  the  close-set  trees, 
limbs  stiffened  with  the  cold,  his  skin  raw  with 
that  pitiless  nor' wester,  gnawed  by  hunger, 
stumbling  with  fatigue,  his  feet  so  weary  that 
with  no  longer  strength  to  lift  them  his  snow- 
shoes  often  catch  the  snow  and  throw  him  to 
his  knees. 

Doubtless  when  the  storm  abated  he  saw 
his  error,  knew  that  he  was  walking  toward 
the  barren  northland,  turned  at  once  and  took 
the  right  course — he  so  experienced,  the 

[168] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

woods  his  home  from  boyhood.  But  his  food 
is  nearly  gone,  the  cold  tortures  him;  with 
lowered  head  and  clenched  teeth  he  fights  the 
implacable  winter,  calling  to  aid  his  every 
reserve  of  strength  and  high  courage.  He 
thinks  of  the  road  he  must  follow,  the  miles  to 
be  overcome,  measures  his  chances  of  life; 
and  fitful  memories  arise  of  a  house,  so  warm 
and  snug,  where  all  will  greet  him  gladly ;  of 
Maria  who,  knowing  what  he  has  dared  for 
her  sake,  will  at  length  raise  to  him  her 
truthful  eyes  shining  with  love. 

Perhaps  he  fell  for  the  last  time  when  suc 
cour  was  near,  a  few  yards  only  from  house  or 
shanty.  Often  so  it  happens.  Cold  and  his 
ministers  of  death  flung  themselves  upon  him 
as  their  prey;  they  have  stilled  the  strong 
limbs  forever,  covered  his  open  handsome  face 
with  snow,  closed  the  fearless  eyes  without 
gentleness  or  pity,  changed  his  living  body 
into  a  thing  of  ice  ...  Maria  has  no  more 
tears  that  she  may  shed,  but  she  shivers  and 
trembles  as  he  must  have  trembled  and  shiv 
ered  before  he  sank  into  merciful  unconscious 
ness;  horror  and  pity  in  her  face,  Maria  draws 
nearer  the  stove  as  though  she  might  thus 

[169] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

bring  nim  warmth  and  shield  his  dear  life 
against  the  assassin. 

"0  Christ  Jesus,  who  didst  stretch  forth 
Thine  arm  to  those  in  need,  why  didst  Thou 
not  disperse  the  snows  with  those  pale  hands 
of  Thine?  Holy  Virgin,  why  didst  Thou  not 
sustain  him  by  Thy  power  when,  for  the  last 
time,  his  feet  were  stumbling?  In  all  the  le 
gions  of  heaven  why  was  there  found  no  angel 
to  show  him  the  way?" 

But  it  is  her  grief  that  utters  these  re 
proaches,  and  the  steadfast  heart  of  Maria  is 
fearful  of  having  sinned  in  yielding  to  it. 
Another  dread  is  soon  to  assail  her.  Perhaps 
Francois  Paradis  was  not  able  quite  faithfully 
to  keep  the  promises  he  made  to  her.  In  the 
shanty,  among  rough  and  careless  men,  may 
he  not  have  had  moments  of  weakness; 
blasphemed  or  taken  the  names  of  the  saints 
in  vain,  and  thus  have  gone  to  his  death  with 
sin  upon  his  conscience,  under  the  weight  of 
divine  wrath. 

Her  parents  had  promised  but  a  little  ago 
that  masses  should  be  said.  How  good  they 
were!  Having  guessed  her  secret  how  kindly 
had  they  been  silent!  But  she  herself  might 

[170] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

help  with  prayers  the  poor  soul  in  torment. 
Her  beads  still  lay  upon  the  table;  she  takes 
them  in  her  hands,  and  forthwith  the  words  of 
the  Ave  mount  to  her  lips : — "Hail  Mary,  full 
of  grace  ..." 

Did  you  doubt  of  her,  0  mother  of  the  Gali 
lean?  Since  that  only  eight  days  before  she 
strove  to  reach  your  ear  with  her  thousand 
prayers,  and  you  but  clothed  yourself  in  di 
vine  impassivity  while  fate  accomplished  its 
purpose,  think  you  that  she  questions  your 
goodness  or  your  power?  It  would  indeed 
have  been  to  misjudge  her.  As  once  she 
sought  your  aid  for  a  man,  so  now  she  asks 
your  pardon  for  a  soul,  in  the  same  words, 
with  the  same  humility  and  boundless  faith. 

"Blessed  art  Thou  amongst  women,  and 
blessed  is  the  fruit  of  Thy  womb,  Jesus." 

But  still  she  cowers  by  the  great  stove,  and 
though  the  fire's  heat  strikes  through  her,  she 
ceases  not  to  shudder  as  she  thinks  of  the 
frozen  world  about  her,  of  Frangois  Paradis, 
who  cannot  be  insentient,  who  must  be  so 
bitter  cold  in  his  bed  of  snow  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  INTERPRETER  OF  GOD 


tOne  evening  in  February. 
;• 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  INTERPRETER  OF  GOD 

NE  evening  in  February  Samuel 
Ghapdelaine  said  to  his  daughter: 
"The  roads  are  passable;  if  you 
wish  it,  Maria,  we  shall  go  to 
La  Pipe  on  Sunday  for  the  mass." 
"Very  well,  father;"  but  she 
replied  in  a  voice  so  dejected,  almost  indiffer 
ent,  that  her  parents  exchanged  glances 
behind  her  back. 

Country  folk  do  not  die  for  love,  nor  spend 
the  rest  of  their  days  nursing  a  wound.  They 
are  too  near  to  nature,  and  know  too  well  the 
stern  laws  that  rule  their  lives.  Thus  it  is 
perhaps,  that  they  are  sparing  of  high-sound 
ing  words;  choosing  to  say  "liking"  rather 
than  "loving,"  "ennui"  rather  than  "grief," 
that  so  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  heart  may 
bear  a  fit  proportion  to  those  more  anxious 
concerns  of  life  which  have  to  do  with  their 
daily  toil,  the  yield  of  their  lands,  provision 
for  the  future. 

[175] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Maria  did  not  for  a  moment  dream  that  life 
for  her  was  over,  or  that  the  world  must 
henceforward  be  a  sad  wilderness,  because 
Frangois  Paradis  would  not  return  in  the 
spring  nor  ever  again.  But  her  heart  was 
aching,  and  while  sorrow  possessed  it  the 
future  held  no  promise  for  her. 

When  Sunday  arrived,  father  and  daughter 
early  began  to  make  ready  for  the  two  hours' 
journey  which  would  bring  them  to  St.  Henri 
de  Taillon,  and  the  church.  Before  half-past 
seven  Charles  Eugene  was  harnessed,  and 
Maria,  still  wearing  a  heavy  winter  cloak,  had 
carefully  deposited  in  her  purse  the  list  of  her 
mother's  commissions.  A  few  minutes  later 
the  sleigh-bells  were  tinkling,  and  the  rest  of 
the  family  grouped  themselves  at  the  little 
square  window  to  watch  the  departure. 

For  the  first  hour  the  horse  could  not  go  be 
yond  a  walk,  sinking  knee-deep  in  snow;  for 
only  the  Chapdelaines  used  this  road,  laid 
out  and  cleared  by  themselves,  and  not 
enough  travelled  to  become  smooth  and  hard. 
But  when  they  reached  the  beaten  highway 
Charles  Eugene  trotted  along  briskly. 
[176] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

They  passed  through  Honfleur,  a  hamlet  of 
eight  scattered  houses,  and  then  re-entered 
the  woods.  After  a  time  they  came  upon 
clearings,  then  houses  appeared  dotted  along 
the  road ;  little  by  little  the  dusky  ranks  of  the 
forest  retreated,  and  soon  they  were  in  the 
village  with  other  sleighs  before  and  following 
them,  all  going  toward  the  church. 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  year  Maria  had 
gone  three  times  to  hear  mass  at  St.  Henri  de 
Taillon,  which  the  people  of  the  country  per 
sist  in  calling  La  Pipe,  as  in  the  gallant  days 
of  the  first  settlers.  For  her,  besides  being  an 
exercise  of  piety,  this  was  almost  the  only  dis 
traction  possible  and  her  father  sought  to 
furnish  it  whenever  he  could  do  so,  believing 
that  the  impressive  rites  of  the  church  and  a 
meeting  with  acquaintances  in  the  village 
would  help  to  banish  her  grief. 

On  this  occasion  when  the  mass  was  ended, 
instead  of  paying  visits  they  went  to  the 
cure's  house.  It  was  already  thronged  with 
members  of  the  congregation  from  remote 
farms,  for  the  Canadian  priest  not  only  has 
the  consciences  of  his  flock  in  charge,  but  is 
their  counsellor  in  all  affairs,  and  the  com- 

[177] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

poser  of  their  disputes;  the  solitary  individual 
of  different  station  to  whom  they  can  resort 
for  the  solving  of  their  difficulties. 

The  cure  of  St.  Henri  sent  none  away  empty 
who  asked  his  advice;  some  he  dealt  with  in  a 
few  swift  words  amidst  a  general  conversation 
where  he  bore  his  cheerful  part;  others  at 
greater  length  in  the  privacy  of  an  adjoining 
room.  When  the  turn  of  the  Chapdelaines 
came  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  We  shall  have  dinner  first.  What  say  you, 
my  good  friends?  You  must  have  found  an 
appetite  on  the  road.  As  for  myself,  singing 
mass  makes  me  hungry  beyond  anything  you 
could  believe." 

He  laughed  heartily,  more  tickled  than  any 
one  at  his  own  joke,  and  led  his  guests  into 
the  dining-room.  Another  priest  was  there 
from  a  neighbouring  parish,  and  two  or  three 
farmers.  The  meal  was  one  long  discussion 
about  husbandry,  with  a  few  amusing  stories 
and  bits  of  harmless  gossip  thrown  in;  now 
and  then  one  of  the  farmers,  suddenly  remem 
bering  where  he  was,  would  labour  some  pious 
remark  which  the  priests  acknowledged  with 
a  nod  or  an  absent-minded  "Yes!  Yes!" 

[178] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

The  dinner  over  at  last,  some  of  the  guests 
departed  after  lighting  their  pipes.  The  cure, 
catching  a  glance  from  Chapdelaine,  seemed 
to  recall  something;  arising,  he  motioned  to 
Maria,  and  went  before  her  into  the  next  room 
which  served  him  both  for  visitors  and  as  his 
office. 

A  small  harmonium  stood  against  the  wall; 
on  the  other  side  was  a  table  with  agricultural 
journals,  a  Civil  Code  and  a  few  books  bound 
in  black  leather;  on  the  walls  hung  a  portrait 
of  Pius  X.,  an  engraving  of  the  Holy  Family, 
the  coloured  broadside  of  a  Quebec  merchant 
with  sleighs  and  threshing-machines  side  by 
side,  and  a  number  of  official  notices  as  to  pre 
cautions  against  forest  fires  and  epidemics 
amongst  cattle. 

Turning  to  Maria,  the  cure  said  kindly 
enough:--"  So  it  appears  that  you  are  distress 
ing  yourself  beyond  what  is  reasonable  and 
right?" 

She  looked  at  him  humbly,  not  far  from  be 
lieving  that  the  priest's  supernatural  power 
had  divined  her  trouble  without  need  of 
telling.  He  inclined  his  tall  figure,  and  bent 
toward  her  his  thin  peasant  face;  for  beneath 

[179] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

the  robe  was  still  the  tiller  of  the  soil:  the 
gaunt  and  yellow  visage,  the  cautious  eyes, 
the  huge  bony  shoulders.  Even  his  hands — 
hands  wont  to  dispense  the  favours  of  Heaven 
— were  those  of  the  husbandman,  with 
swollen  veins  beneath  the  dark  skin.  But 
Maria  saw  in  him  only  the  priest,  the  cure  of 
the  parish,  appointed  of  God  to  interpret  life 
to  her  and  show  her  the  path  of  duty. 

"Be  seated  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a 
chair.  She  sat  down  somewhat  like  a  school 
girl  who  is  to  have  a  scolding,  somewhat  like 
a  woman  in  a  sorcerer's  den  who  awaits  in 
mingled  hope  and  dread  the  working  of  his 
unearthly  spells. 

An  hour  later  the  sleigh  was  speeding  over 
the  hard  snow.  Chapdelaine  drowsed,  and 
the  reins  were  slipping  from  his  open  hands. 
Rousing  himself  and  lifting  his  head,  he  sang 
again  in  full-voiced  fervour  the  hymn  he  was 
singing  as  they  left  the  village: — 

.  .  .  Adorons-le  dans  le  ciel. 
Adorons-le  stir  1'autel  .  .  . 

Then  he  fell  silent,  his  chin  dropping 
slowly  toward  his  breast,  and  the  only 

[180] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

sound  upon  the  road  was  the  tinkle  of  sleigh- 
bells. 

Maria  was  thinking  of  the  priest's  words: 
"  If  there  was  affection  between  you  it  is  very 
proper  that  you  should  know  regret.  But  you 
were  not  pledged  to  one  another,  because 
neither  you  nor  he  had  spoken  to  your  par 
ents;  therefore  it  is  not  befitting  or  right  that 
you  should  sorrow  thus,  nor  feel  so  deep  a 
grief  for  a  young  man  who,  after  all  is  said, 
was  nothing  to  you  .  .  ." 

And  again:  "That  masses  should  be  sung, 
that  you  should  pray  for  him,  such  things  are 
useful  and  good,  you  could  do  no  better. 
Three  high  masses  with  music,  and  three  more 
when  the  boys  return  from  the  woods,  as  your 
father  has  asked  me,  most  assuredly  these  will 
help  him,  and  also  you  may  be  certain  they 
will  delight  him  more  than  your  lamentations, 
since  they  will  shorten  by  so  much  his  time  of 
expiation.  But  to  grieve  like  this,  and  to  go 
about  casting  gloom  over  the  household  is  not 
well,  nor  is  it  pleasing  in  the  sight  of  God." 

He  did  not  appear  in  the  guise  of  a  com 
forter,  nor  of  one  who  gives  counsel  in  the 
secret  affairs  of  the  heart,  but  rather  as  a  man 
[181] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

of  the  law  or  a  chemist  who  enunciates  his 
bald  formulas,  invariable  and  unfailing. 

'  The  duty  of  a  girl  like  you — good-looking, 
healthy,  active  withal  and  a  clever  house 
wife — is  in  the  first  place  to  help  her  old 
parents,  and  in  good  time  to  marry  and  bring 
up  a  Christian  family  of  her  own.  You  have 
no  call  to  the  religious  lifeP  No.  Then  you 
must  give  up  torturing  yourself  in  this  fash 
ion,  because  it  is  a  sacrilegious  thing  and 
unseemly,  seeing  that  the  young  man  was 
nothing  whatever  to  you.  The  good  God 
knows  what  is  best  for  us;  we  should  neither 
rebel  nor  complain  .  .  ." 

In  all  this,  but  one  phrase  left  Maria  a  little 
doubting,  it  was  the  priest's  assurance  that 
Frangois  Paradis,  in  the  place  where  now  he 
was,  cared  only  for  masses  to  repose  his  soul, 
and  never  at  all  for  the  deep  and  tender  regrets 
lingering  behind  him.  This  she  could  not 
constrain  herself  to  believe.  Unable  to  think 
of  him  otherwise  in  death  than  in  life,  she  felt 
it  must  bring  him  something  of  happiness  and 
consolation  that  her  sorrow  was  keeping  alive 
their  ineffectual  love  for  a  little  space  beyond 
death.  Yet,  since  the  priest  had  said  it  ... 

[182] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

The  road  wound  its  way  among  the  trees 
rising  sombrely  from  the  snow.  Here  and 
there  a  squirrel,  alarmed  by  the  swiftly  pass 
ing  sleigh  and  the  tinkling  bells,  sprang  upon 
a  trunk  and  scrambled  upward,  clinging  to  the 
bark.  From  the  gray  sky  a  biting  cold  was 
falling  and  the  wind  stung  the  cheek,  for  this 
was  February,  with  two  long  months  of 
winter  yet  to  come. 

As  Charles  Eugene  trotted  along  the  beaten 
road,  bearing  the  travellers  to  their  lonely 
house,  Maria,  in  obedience  to  the  words  of  the 
cure  at  St.  Henri,  strove  to  drive  away  gloom 
and  put  mourning  from  her;  as  simple- 
mindedly  as  she  would  have  fought  the  tempta 
tion  of  a  dance,  of  a  doubtful  amusement  or 
anything  that  was  plainly  wrong  and  hence 
forbidden. 

They  reached  home  as  night  was  falling. 
The  coming  of  evening  was  only  a  slow  fading 
of  the  light,  for,  since  morning,  the  heavens 
had  been  overcast,  the  sun  obscured.  A 
sadness  rested  upon  the  pallid  earth;  the  firs 
and  cypresses  did  not  wear  the  aspect  of  living 
trees  and  the  naked  birches  seemed  to  doubt 
of  the  springtime.  Maria  shivered  as  she  left 

[183] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

the  sleigh,  and  hardly  noticed  Chien,  barking 
and  gambolling  a  welcome,  or  the  children 
who  called  to  her  from  the  door-step.  The 
world  seemed  strangely  empty,  for  this 
evening  at  least.  Love  was  snatched  away, 
and  they  forbade  remembrance.  She  went 
swiftly  into  the  house  without  looking  about 
her,  conscious  of  a  new  dread  and  hatred  for 
the  bleak  land,  the  forest's  eternal  shade,  the 
snow  and  the  cold, — for  all  those  things  she 
had  lived  her  life  amongst,  which  now  had 
wounded  her. 


[184] 


CHAPTER  XII 
LOVE  BEARING  GIFTS 


March  came,  and. 


CHAPTER  XII 


LOVE  BEARING  GIFTS 


ARCH  came,  and  one  day  Tit'Be 
brought  the  news  from  Honfleur 
that  there  would  be  a  large  gather 
ing  in  the  evening  at  Ephrem 
Surprenant's  to  which  everyone 
was  invited. 
But  someone  must  stay  to  look  after  the 
house,  and  as  Madame  Chapdelaine  had  set 
her  heart  on  this  little  diversion  after  being 
cooped  up  for  all  these  months,  it  was  Tit'Be 
himself  who  was  left  at  home.  Honfleur,  the 
nearest  village  to  their  house,  was  eight  miles 
away;  but  what  were  eight  miles  over  the 
snow  and  through  the  woods  compared  with 
the  delight  of  hearing  songs  and  stories,  and 
of  talk  with  people  from  afar? 

A  numerous  company  was  assembled  under 
the  Surprenant  roof:  several  of  the  villagers, 
the  three  Frenchmen  who  had  bought  his 
nephew  Lorenzo's  farm,  and  also,  to  the 
Chapdelaines'  great  surprise,  Lorenzo  himself, 
back  once  more  from  the  States  upon  business 

[187] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

that  related  to  the  sale  and  the  settling  of  his 
father's  affairs.  He  greeted  Maria  very 
warmly,  and  seated  himself  beside  her. 

The  men  lit  their  pipes;  they  chatted  about 
the  weather,  the  condition  of  the  roads,  the 
country  news;  but  the  conversation  lagged,  as 
though  all  were  looking  for  it  to  take  some 
unusual  turn.  Their  glances  sought  Lorenzo 
and  the  three  Frenchmen,  expecting  strange 
and  marvellous  tales  of  distant  lands  and  un 
familiar  manners  from  an  assembly  so  far  out 
of  the  common.  The  Frenchmen,  only  a  few 
months  in  the  country,  apparently  felt  a  like 
curiosity,  for  they  listened,  and  spoke  but 
little. 

Samuel  Chapdelaine,  who  was  meeting 
them  for  the  first  time,  deemed  himself 
called  upon  to  put  them  through  a  catechism 
in  the  ingenuous  Canadian  fashion. 

"So  you  have  come  here  to  till  the  land. 
How  do  you  like  Canada?" 

"It  is  a  beautiful  country,  new  and  so 
vast  ...  In  the  summer-time  there  are 
many  flies,  and  the  winters  are  trying;  but  I 
suppose  that  one  gets  used  to  these  things  in 
time." 

[188] 


MARIA  GHAPDELAIJSTE 

The  father  it  was  who  made  reply,  his  sons 
only  nodding  their  heads  in  assent  with  eyes 
glued  to  the  floor.  Their  appearance  alone 
would  have  served  to  distinguish  them  from 
the  other  dwellers  in  the  village,  but  as  they 
spoke  the  gap  widened,  and  the  words  that  fell 
from  their  lips  had  a  foreign  ring.  There  was 
none  of  the  slowness  of  the  Canadian  speech, 
nor  of  that  indefinable  accent  found  in  no 
corner  of  France,  which  is  only  a  peasant  blend 
of  the  different  pronunciations  of  former  emi 
grants.  They  used  words  and  turns  of  phrase 
one  never  hears  in  Quebec,  even  in  the  towns, 
and  which  to  these  simple  men  seemed  fas 
tidious  and  wonderfully  refined. 

"Before  coming  to  these  parts  were  you 
farmers  in  your  own  country?" 

"No." 

"What  trade  then  did  you  follow?" 

The  Frenchman  hesitated  a  moment  before 
replying;  possibly  thinking  that  what  he  was 
about  to  say  would  be  novel,  and  hard  for 
them  to  understand.  "I  was  a  tuner  myself, 
a  piano-tuner;  my  two  sons  here  were  clerks, 
Edmond  in  an  office,  Pierre  in  a  shop." 

[189] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Clerks — that  was  plain  enough  for  anyone; 
but  their  minds  were  a  little  hazy  as  to  the 
father's  business. 

However  Ephrem  Surprenant  chimed  in 
with: — "Piano-tuner;  that  was  it,  just  so!" 
And  his  glance  at  Conrad  Neron  his  neighbour 
was  a  trifle  superior  and  challenging,  as 
though  intimating: — "You  would  not  believe 
me,  and  maybe  you  don't  know  what  it 
means,  but  now  you  see  .  .  ." 

"Piano-tuner,"  Samuel  Chapdelaine  echoed 
in  turn,  slowly  grasping  the  meaning  of  the 
words.  "And  is  that  a  good  trade?  Do  you 
earn  handsome  wages P  Not  too  handsome, 
eh  I  .  .  .At  any  rate  you  are  well  educated, 
you  and  your  sons;  you  can  read  and  write 
and  cipher?  And  here  am  I,  not  able  even 
to  read!" 

"Nor  I!"  struck  in  Ephrem  Surprenant, 
and  Conrad  Neron  and  Egide  Racicot  added : 
"  Nor  I ! "  "  Nor  I ! "  in  chorus,  whereupon  the 
whole  of  them  broke  out  laughing. 

A  motion  of  the  Frenchman's  hand  told 
them  indulgently  that  they  could  very  well 
dispense  with  these  accomplishments;  to 
himself  of  little  enough  use  at  the  moment. 

[190] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

"  You  were  not  able  to  make  a  decent  living 
out  of  your  trades  over  there.  That  is  so,  is 
it  not?  And  therefore  you  came  here?" 

The  question  was  put  simply,  without 
thought  of  offence,  for  he  was  amazed  that 
anyone  should  abandon  callings  that  seemed 
so  easy  and  so  pleasant  for  this  arduous  life 
on  the  land. 

Why  indeed  had  they  come?  ...  A  few 
months  earlier  they  would  have  discovered  a 
thousand  reasons  and  clothed  them  in  words 
straight  from  the  heart:  weariness  of  the  foot 
way  and  the  pavement,  of  the  town's  sullied 
air;  revolt  against  the  prospect  of  lifelong 
slavery;  some  chance  stirring  word  of  an  irre 
sponsible  speaker  preaching  the  gospel  of 
vigour  and  enterprise,  of  a  free  and  healthy 
life  upon  a  fruitful  soil.  But  a  few  months  ago 
they  could  have  found  glowing  sentences  to 
tell  it  all  ...  Now  their  best  was  a  sorry 
effort  to  evade  the  question,  as  they  groped 
for  any  of  the  illusions  that  remained  to 
them. 

"People  are  not  always  happy  in  the 
cities,"  said  the  father.  "Everything  is  dear, 
and  one  is  confined." 

[191] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

In  their  narrow  Parisian  lodging  it  had 
seemed  so  wonderful  a  thing  to  them,  the 
notion  that  in  Canada  they  would  spend  their 
days  out  of  doors,  breathing  the  taintless  air 
of  a  new  country,  close  beside  the  mighty  for 
est.  The  black-flies  they  had  not  foreseen, 
nor  comprehended  the  depth  of  the  winter's 
cold;  the  countless  ill  turns  of  a  land  that  has 
no  pity  were  undivined. 

"Did  you  picture  it  to  yourselves  as  you 
have  found  it,"  Chapdelaine  persisted,  "the 
country  here,  the  life?" 

"Not  exactly,"  replied  the  Frenchman  in  a 
low  voice.  "No,  not  exactly  .  .  ."  And  a 
shadow  crossed  his  face  which  brought  from 
Ephrem  Surprenant: — "It  is  rough  here, 
rough  and  hard!" 

Their  heads  assented,  and  their  eyes  fell: 
three  narrow-shouldered  men,  their  faces  with 
the  pallor  of  the  town  still  upon  them  after 
six  months  on  the  land;  three  men  whom  a 
fancy  had  torn  from  counter,  office,  piano- 
stool — from  the  only  lives  for  which  they  were 
bred.  For  it  is  not  the  peasant  alone  who 
suffers  by  uprooting  from  his  native  soil. 
They  were  seeing  their  mistake,  and  knew 
[192] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

they  were  too  unlike  in  grain  to  copy  those 
about  them;  lacking  the  strength,  the  rude 
health,  the  toughened  fibre,  that  training  for 
every  task  which  fits  the  Canadian  to  be 
farmer,  woodsman  or  carpenter,  according  to 
season  and  need. 

The  father  was  dreamily  shaking  his  head, 
lost  in  thought;  one  of  the  sons,  elbows  on 
knees,  gazed  wonderingly  at  the  palms  of  his 
delicate  hands,  calloused  by  the  rough  work  of 
the  fields.  All  three  seemed  to  be  turning 
over  and  over  in  their  minds  the  melancholy 
balance-sheet  of  a  failure.  Those  about  them 
were  thinking: — "Lorenzo  sold  his  place  for 
more  than  it  was  worth;  they  have  but  little 
money  left  and  are  in  hard  case;  men  like 
these  are  not  built  for  living  on  the  land." 

Madame  Chapdelaine,  partly  in  pity  and 
partly  for  the  honour  of  farming,  let  fall  a  few 
encouraging  words: — "It  is  something  of  a 
struggle  at  the  beginning — if  you  are  not  used 
to  it;  but  when  your  land  is  in  better  order 
you  will  see  that  life  becomes  easier." 

"It  is  a  queer  thing,"  said  Conrad  Neron, 
"how  every  man  finds  it  equally  hard  to  rest 
content.  Here  are  three  who  left  their  homes 

[193] 


MARIA          GHAPDELAINE 

and  came  this  long  way  to  settle  and  farm, 
and  here  am  I  always  saying  to  myself  that 
nothing  would  be  so  pleasant  as  to  sit  quietly 
in  an  office  all  the  day,  a  pen  behind  my  ear, 
sheltered  from  cold  wind  and  hot  sun." 

"Everyone  to  his  own  notion,"  declared 
Lorenzo  Surprenant,  with  unbiassed  mind. 

"And  your  notion  is  not  to  stick  in  Hon- 
fleur  sweating  over  the  stumps,"  added 
Racicot  with  a  loud  laugh. 

"You  are  quite  right  there,  and  I  make  no 
bones  about  it;  that  sort  of  thing  would  never 
have  suited  me.  These  men  here  bought  my 
land — a  good  farm,  and  no  one  can  gainsay  it. 
They  wanted  to  buy  a  farm  and  I  sold  them 
mine.  But  as  for  myself,  I  am  well  enough 
where  I  am,  and  have  no  wish  to  return." 

Madame  Chapdelaine  shook  her  head. 
"There  is  no  better  life  than  the  life  of  a  far 
mer  who  has  good  health  and  owes  no  debts. 
He  is  a  free  man,  has  no  boss,  owns  his  beasts, 
works  for  his  own  profit .  .  .  The  finest  life 
there  is!" 

"I  hear  them  all  say  that,"  Lorenzo  re 
torted,  "  one  is  free,  his  own  master.  And  you 
seem  to  pity  those  who  work  in  factories  be- 

[194] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

cause  they  have  a  boss,  and  must  do  as  they 
are  told.  Free — on  the  land — come  now!" 
He  spoke  defiantly,  with  more  and  more 
animation. 

"There  is  no  man  in  the  world  less  free 
than  a  farmer  .  .  .  When  you  tell  of  those 
who  have  succeeded,  who  are  well  provided 
with  everything  needful  on  a  farm,  who  have 
had  better  luck  than  others,  you  say: — 'Ah, 
what  a  fine  life  they  lead!  They  are  comfor 
tably  off,  own  good  cattle.'  That  is  not  how  to 
put  it.  The  truth  is  that  their  cattle  own 
them.  In  all  the  world  there  is  no  'boss'  who 
behaves  as  stupidly  as  the  beasts  you  favour. 
Pretty  nearly  every  day  they  give  you  trouble 
or  do  you  some  mischief.  Now  it  is  a  skittish 
horse  that  runs  away  or  lashes  out  with  his 
heels;  then  it  is  a  cow,  however  good-tem 
pered,  that  won't  keep  still  to  be  milked  and 
tramples  on  your  toes  when  the  flies  annoy  her. 
And  even  if  by  good  fortune  they  don't  harm 
you,  they  are  forever  finding  a  way  to  destroy 
your  comfort  and  to  vex  you  .  .  ." 

"I  know  how  it  is;  I  was  brought  up  on  a 
farm.  And  you,  most  of  you  farmers,  know 
how  it  is  too.  All  the  morning  you  have 
[195] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAIIN£ 

worked  hard,  and  go  to  your  house  for  dinner 
and  a  little  rest.  Then,  before  you  are  well 
seated  at  table,  a  child  is  yelling: — 'The 
cows  are  over  the  fence;'  or  'The  sheep  are  in 
the  crop,'  and  everyone  jumps  up  and  runs, 
thinking  of  the  oats  or  the  barley  it  has  been 
such  a  trouble  to  raise,  that  these  miserable 
fools  are  ruining.  The  men  dash  about 
brandishing  sticks  till  they  are  out  of  breath; 
the  women  stand  screaming  in  the  farm-yard. 
And  when  you  have  managed  to  drive  the 
cows  or  the  sheep  into  their  paddock  and  put 
up  the  rails,  you  get  back  to  the  house  nicely 
'rested'  to  find  the  pea-soup  cold  and  full  of 
flies,  the  pork  under  the  table  gnawed  by 
dogs  and  cats,  and  you  eat  what  you  can  lay 
your  hands  on,  watching  for  the  next  trick  the 
wretched  animals  are  getting  ready  to  play  on 
you." 

"You  are  their  slaves;  that's  what  you  are. 
You  tend  them,  you  clean  them,  you  gather 
up  their  dung  as  the  poor  do  the  rich  man's 
crumbs.  It  is  you  who  must  keep  them  alive 
by  hard  work,  because  the  earth  is  miserly  and 
the  summer  so  short.  That  is  the  way  of  it, 
and  there  is  no  help,  as  you  cannot  get  on 

[196] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

without  them;  but  for  cattle  there  would  be 
no  living  on  the  land.  But  even  if  you  could 
.  .  .  even  if  you  could  .  .  .  still  would 
you  have  other  masters:  the  summer,  begin 
ning  too  late  and  ending  too  soon;  the  winter, 
eating  up  seven  long  months  of  the  year  and 
bringing  in  nothing;  drought  and  rain  which 
always  come  just  at  the  wrong  moment  ..." 

"In  the  towns  these  things  do  not  matter; 
but  here  you  have  no  defence  against  them 
and  they  do  you  hurt;  and  I  have  not  taken 
into  account  the  extreme  cold,  the  badness  of 
the  roads,  the  loneliness  of  being  far  away 
from  everything,  with  no  amusements.  Life 
is  one  kind  of  hardship  on  top  of  another 
from  beginning  to  end.  It  is  often  said  that 
only  those  make  a  real  success  who  are  born 
and  brought  up  on  the  land,  and  of  course 
that  is  true;  as  for  the  people  in  the  cities, 
small  danger  that  they  would  ever  be  foolish 
enough  to  put  up  with  such  a  way  of  living." 

He  spoke  with  heat  and  volubly — a  man  of 
the  town  who  talks  every  day  with  his  equals, 
reads  the  papers,  hears  public  speakers.  The 
listeners,  of  a  race  easily  moved  by  words, 
were  carried  away  by  his  plaints  and  criti- 

[197] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

cisms;  the  very  real  harshness  of  their  lives 
was  presented  in  such  a  new  and  startling 
light  as  to  surprise  even  themselves. 

However  Madame  Chapdelaine  again  shook 
her  head.  "Do  not  say  such  things  as  that; 
there  is  no  happier  life  in  the  world  than  the 
life  of  a  farmer  who  owns  good  land." 

"  Not  in  these  parts,  Madame  Chapdelaine. 
You  are  too  far  north;  the  summer  is  too 
short;  the  grain  is  hardly  up  before  the  frosts 
come.  Each  time  that  I  return  from  the 
States,  and  see  the  tiny  wooden  houses  lost  in 
this  wilderness — so  far  from  one  another  that 
they  seem  frightened  at  being  alone — and  the 
woods  hemming  you  in  on  every  side  .  .  . 
By  Heaven!  I  lose  heart  for  you,  I  who  live 
here  no  longer,  and  I  ask  myself  how  it  comes 
about  that  all  you  folk  did  not  long  ago  seek 
a  kinder  climate  where  you  would  find  every 
thing  that  makes  for  comfort,  Wnere  you  could 
go  out  for  a  walk  in  the  winter-time  without 
being  in  fear  of  death  ,\/  ." 

Without  being  in  fear  of  death!  Maria 
shuddered  as  the  thought  swiftly  awoke  of 
those  dark  secrets  hidden  beneath  the  ever 
lasting  green  and  white  of  the  forest.  Lorenzo 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Surprenant  was  right  in  what  he  had  been 
saying;  it  was  a  pitiless  ungentle  land.  The 
menace  lurking  just  outside  the  door — the 
cold — the  shrouding  snows — the  blank  soli 
tude — forced  a  sudden  entrance  and  crowded 
about  the  stove,  an  evil  swarm  sneering 
presages  of  ill  or  hovering  in  a  yet  more 
dreadful  silence: — "Do  you  remember,  my 
sister,  the  men,  brave  and  well-beloved,  whom 
we  have  slain  and  hidden  in  the  woods?  Their 
souls  have  known  how  to  escape  us ;  but  their 
bodies,  their  bodies,  their  bodies,  none  shall 
ever  snatch  them  from  our  hands  .  .  ." 

The  voice  of  the  wind  at  the  corners  of  the 
house  was  loud  with  hollow  laughter,  and  to 
Maria  it  seemed  that  all  gathered  within  the 
wooden  walls  huddled  and  spoke  low,  like  men 
whose  lives  are  under  a  threat  and  who  go  in 
dread. 

A  burden  of  sadness  was  upon  the  rest  of 
the  evening,  at  least  for  her.  Racicot  told 
stories  of  the  chase:  of  trapped  bears  strug 
gling  and  growling  so  fiercely  at  the  sight  of 
the  trapper  that  he  loses  courage  and  falls 
a~ trembling;  and  then  giving  up  suddenly 
when  the  hunters  come  in  force  and  the 
[199] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

deadly  guns  are  aimed — giving  up,  covering 
their  heads  with  their  paws  and  whimpering 
with  groans  and  outcries  almost  human,  very 
heart-rending  and  pitiful. 

After  these  tales  came  others  of  ghosts 
and  apparitions;  of  blood-curdling  visitations 
or  solemn  warnings  to  men  who  had  blas 
phemed  or  spoken  ill  of  the  priests.  Then,  as 
no  one  could  be  persuaded  to  sing,  they 
played  at  cards  and  the  conversation  dropped 
to  more  commonplace  themes.  The  only 
memory  that  Maria  carried  away  of  the 
later  talk,  as  the  sleigh  bore  them  homeward 
through  the  midnight  woods,  was  of  Lorenzo 
Surprenant  extolling  the  United  States  and 
the  magnificence  of  its  great  cities,  the  easy 
and  pleasant  life,  the  never-ending  spectacle 
of  the  fine  straight  streets  flooded  with  light 
at  evening. 

Before  she  departed  Lorenzo  said  in  quiet 
tones,  almost  in  her  ear: — "To-morrow  is 
Sunday;  I  shall  be  over  to  see  you  in  the 
afternoon." 

A  few  short  hours  of  night,  a  morning  of 
sunlight  on  the  snow,  and  again  he  is  by  her 
side  renewing  his  tale  of  wonders,  his  inter- 
[200] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

rupted  plea.  For  it  was  to  her  he  had  been 
speaking  the  evening  before;  Maria  knew  it 
well.  The  scorn  he  showed  for  a  country 
life,  his  praises  of  the  town,  these  were  but 
a  preface  to  the  allurements  he  was  about 
to  offer  in  all  their  varied  forms,  as  one  shows 
the  pictures  in  a  book,  turning  page  by  page. 
"Maria,"  he  began,  "you  have  not  the 
faintest  idea!  As  yet,  the  most  wonderful 
things  you  ever  saw  were  the  shops  in  Rober- 
val,  a  high  mass,  an  evening  entertainment 
at  the  convent  with  acting.  City  people 
would  laugh  to  think  of  it!  You  simply  can 
not  imagine  .  .  .  Just  to  stroll  through  the 
big  streets  in  the  evening — not  on  little 
plank-walks  like  those  of  Roberval,  but  on 
fine  broad  asphalt  pavements  as  level  as  a 
table — just  that  and  no  more,  what  with  the 
lights,  the  electric  cars  coming  and  going 
continually,  the  shops  and  the  crowds,  you 
would  find  enough  there  to  amaze  you  for 
weeks  together.  And  then  all  the  amuse 
ments  one  has:  theatres,  circusses,  illustrated 
papers,  and  places  everywhere  that  you  can 
go  into  for  a  nickel — five  cents — and  pass 
two  hours  laughing  and  crying.  To  think, 
[201] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Maria,   you  do  not  even  know  what  the 
moving  pictures  are!" 

He  stopped  for  a  little,  reviewing  in  his 
mind  the  marvels  of  the  cinematograph, 
asking  himself  whether  he  could  hope  to 
describe  convincingly  the  fare  it  provided : — 
those  thrilling  stories  of  young  girls,  deserted 
or  astray,  which  crowd  the  screen  with 
twelve  minutes  of  heart-rending  misery  and 
three  of  amends  and  heavenly  reward  in 
surroundings  of  incredible  luxury; — the  fren 
zied  galloping  of  cowboys  in  pursuit  of  Indian 
ravishers;  the  tremendous  fusillade;  the 
rescue  at  the  last  conceivable  second  by 
soldiers  arriving  in  a  whirlwind,  waving 
triumphantly  the  star-spangled  banner  .  .  . 
after  pausing  in  doubt  he  shook  his  head, 
conscious  that  he  had  no  words  to  paint 
such  glories. 

They  walked  on  snow-shoes  side  by  side 
over  the  snow,  through  the  burnt  lands  that 
lie  on  the  Peribonka's  high  bank  above  the 
fall.  Lorenzo  had  used  no  wile  to  secure 
Maria's  company,  he  simply  invited  her 
before  them  all,  and  now  he  told  of  his  love 
in  the  same  straightforward  practical  way. 

[202] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"The  first  day  I  saw  you,  Maria,  the  very 
first  day  .  .  .  that  is  only  the  truth!  For 
a  long  time  I  had  not  been  back  in  this 
country,  and  I  was  thinking  what  a  miserable 
place  it  was  to  live  in,  that  the  men  were  a 
lot  of  simpletons  who  had  never  seen  any 
thing  and  the  girls  not  nearly  so  quick  and 
clever  as  they  are  in  the  States  .  .  .  And 
then,  the  moment  I  set  eyes  on  you,  there 
was  I  saying  to  myself  that  I  was  the  simple 
ton,  for  neither  at  Lowell  nor  Boston  had 
I  ever  met  a  girl  like  yourself.  When  I 
returned  I  used  to  be  thinking  a  dozen  times 
a  day  that  some  wretched  farmer  would 
make  love  to  you  and  carry  you  off,  and 
every  time  my  heart  sank.  It  was  on  your 
account  that  I  came  back,  Maria,  came  up 
here  from  near  Boston,  three  days'  journey! 
The  business  I  had,  I  could  have  done  it  all 
by  letter;  it  was  you  I  wished  to  see,  to  tell 
you  what  was  in  my  heart  to  say  and  to  hear 
the  answer  you  would  give  me." 

Wherever  the  snow  was  clear  for  a  few 
yards,  free  of  dead  trees  and  stumps,  and  he 
could  lift  his  eyes  without  fear  of  stumbling, 
they  were  fixed  upon  Maria;  between  the 

[203] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

woollen  cap  and  the  long  woollen  jersey 
curving  to  her  vigorous  form  he  saw  the 
outline  of  her  face,  downward  turned,  ex 
pressing  only  gentleness  and  patience.  Every 
glance  gave  fresh  reason  for  his  love  but 
brought  him  no  hint  of  a  response. 

"This  .  .  .  this  is  no  place  for  you, 
Maria.  The  country  is  too  rough,  the  work 
too  hard;  barely  earning  one's  bread  is 
killing  toil.  In  a  factory  over  there,  clever 
and  strong  as  you  are,  soon  you  would  be 
in  the  way  of  making  nearly  as  much  as 
I  do;  but  no  need  of  that  if  you  were  my 
wife.  I  earn  enough  for  both  of  us,  and  we 
should  have  every  comfort:  good  clothes  to 
wear,  a  pretty  flat  in  a  brick  house  with  gas 
and  hot  water,  and  all  sorts  of  contrivances 
you  never  heard  of  to  save  you  labour  and 
worry  every  moment  of  the  day.  And  don't 
let  the  idea  enter  your  head  that  all  the 
people  are  English.  I  know  many  Canadian 
families  who  work  as  I  do  or  even  keep 
shops.  And  there  is  a  splendid  church  with 
a  Canadian  priest  as  cure — Mr.  Tremblay 
from  St.  Hyacinthe.  You  would  never  be 
lonesome  ..." 

[204] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Pausing  again  he  surveyed  the  white 
plain  with  its  ragged  crop  of  hrown  stumps, 
the  bleak  plateau  dropping  a  little  farther  in 
a  long  slope  to  the  levels  of  the  frozen  river; 
meanwhile  ransacking  his  mind  for  some 
final  persuasive  word. 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  say  .  .  .  You 
have  always  lived  here  and  it  is  not  possible 
for  you  to  guess  what  life  is  elsewhere,  nor 
would  I  be  able  to  make  you  understand 
were  I  to  talk  forever.  But  I  love  you,  Maria, 
I  earn  a  good  wage  and  I  never  touch  a  drop. 
If  you  will  marry  me  as  I  ask  I  will  take  you 
off  to  a  country  that  will  open  your  eyes 
with  astonishment — a  fine  country,  not  a 
bit  like  this,  where  we  can  live  in  a  decent 
way  and  be  happy  for  the  rest  of  our  days." 

Maria  still  was  silent,  and  yet  the  sentences 
of  Lorenzo  Surprenant  beat  upon  her  heart 
as  succeeding  waves  roll  against  the  shore. 
It  was  not  his  avowals  of  love,  honest  and 
sincere  though  they  were,  but  the  lures  he 
used  which  tempted  her.  Only  of  cheap 
pleasures  had  he  spoken,  of  trivial  things 
ministering  to  comfort  or  vanity,  but  of 
these  alone  was  she  able  to  conjure  up  a 

[205] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

definite  idea.  All  else — the  distant  glamour 
of  the  city,  of  a  life  new  and  incomprehen 
sible  to  her,  full  in  the  centre  of  the  bustling 
world  and  no  longer  at  its  very  confines — 
enticed  her  but  the  more  in  its  shimmering 
remoteness  with  the  mystery  of  a  great  light 
that  shines  from  afar. 

Whatsoever  there  may  be  of  wonder  and  ex 
hilaration  in  the  sight  and  touch  of  the  crowd ; 
the  rich  harvests  of  mind  and  sense  for  which 
the  city  dweller  has  bartered  his  rough  heri 
tage  of  pride  in  the  soil,  Maria  was  dimly  con 
scious  of  as  part  of  this  other  life  in  a  new 
world,  this  glorious  re-birth  for  which  she 
was  already  yearning.  But  above  all  else 
the  desire  was  strong  upon  her  now  to  flee 
away,  to  escape. 

The  wind  from  the  east  was  driving  before 
it  a  host  of  melancholy  snow-laden  clouds. 
Threateningly  they  swept  over  white  ground 
and  sullen  wood,  and  the  earth  seemed  await 
ing  another  fold  of  its  winding-sheet;  cypress, 
spruce  and  fir,  close  side  by  side  and  motion 
less,  were  passive  in  their  attitude  of  uncom 
plaining  endurance.  The  stumps  above  the 
snow  were  like  floating  wreckage  on  a  dreary 

[206] 


MARIA          GHAPDELAINE 

sea.  In  all  the  landscape  there  was  naught 
that  spoke  of  a  spring  to  come — of  warmth 
and  growth;  rather  did  it  seem  a  shard  of 
some  disinherited  planet  under  the  eternal 
rule  of  deadly  cold. 

All  of  her  life  had  Maria  known  this  cold, 
this  snow,  the  land's  death-like  sleep,  these 
austere  and  frowning  woods;  now  was  she 
coming  to  view  them  with  fear  and  hate.  A 
paradise  surely  must  it  be,  this  country  to 
the  south  where  March  is  no  longer  winter 
and  in  April  the  leaves  are  green!  At  mid 
winter  one  takes  to  the  road  without  snow- 
shoes,  unclad  in  furs,  beyond  sight  of  the 
cruel  forest.  And  the  cities  .  .  .  the  pave 
ments  .  .  . 

Questions  framed  themselves  upon  her 
lips.  She  would  know  if  lofty  houses  and 
shops  stood  unbrokenly  on  both  sides  of  the 
streets,  as  she  had  been  told;  if  the  electric 
cars  ran  all  the  year  round;  if  the  living  was 
very  dear  .  .  .  And  the  answers  to  her 
questions  would  have  satisfied  but  a  little  of 
this  eager  curiosity,  would  scarcely  have 
disturbed  the  enchanting  vagueness  of  her 
illusion. 

[207] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

She  was  silent,  however,  dreading  to  speak 
any  word  that  might  seem  like  the  fore 
shadowing  of  a  promise.  Though  Lorenzo 
gazed  at  her  long  as  they  walked  together  across 
the  snow,  he  was  able  to  guess  nothing  of 
what  was  passing  in  her  heart. 

"  You  will  not  have  me,  Maria?  You  have 
no  liking  for  me,  or  is  it,  perhaps,  that  you 
cannot  make  up  your  mind?"  As  still  she 
gave  no  reply  he  clung  to  this  idea,  fearing 
that  she  might  hastily  refuse  him. 

"No  need  whatever  that  you  should  say 
'  Yes '  at  once.  You  have  not  known  me  very 
long  .  .  .  But  think  of  what  I  have  said  to 
you.  I  will  come  hack,  Maria.  It  is  a  long 
journey  and  costly,  but  I  will  come.  And  if 
only  you  give  thought  to  it,  you  will  see  there 
is  no  young  fellow  here  who  could  give  you 
such  a  future  as  I  can;  because  if  you  many 
me  we  shall  live  like  human  beings,  and  not 
have  to  kill  ourselves  tending  cattle  and 
grubbing  in  the  earth  in  this  out-of-the-way 
corner  of  the  world." 

They  returned  to  the  house.  Lorenzo  gos 
siped  a  little  about  his  journey  to  the  States, 
where  the  springtime  would  have  arrived  be- 
[2081 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

fore  him,  of  the  plentiful  and  well-paid  work 
to  which  his  good  clothes  and  prosperous  air 
bore  witness.  Then  he  bade  them  adieu,  and 
Maria,  whose  eyes  had  carefully  been  avoid 
ing  his,  seated  herself  by  the  window,  and 
watched  the  night  and  the  snow  falling  to 
gether  as  she  pondered  in  the  deep  unrest  of 
her  spirit. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
LOVE  BEARING  CHAINS 


No  one  asked  Maria  any  questions  that  evening .... 


CHAPTER  XIII 
LOVE  BEARING  CHAINS 

0  one  asked  Maria  any  questions 
that  evening,  or  on  the  following 
evenings;  but  some  member  of  the 
family  must  have  told  Eutrope 
Gagnon  of  Lorenzo  Surprenant's 
visit  and  his  evident  intentions, 
for  the  next  Sunday  after  dinner  came  Eu 
trope  in  turn,  and  Maria  heard  another  suitor 
declare  his  love. 

Frangois  had  come  in  the  full  tide  of  sum 
mer,  from  the  land  of  mystery  at  the  head 
waters  of  the  rivers;  the  memory  of  his  artless 
words  brought  back  the  dazzling  sunshine, 
the  ripened  blueberries  and  the  last  blossoms 
of  the  laurel  fading  in  the  undergrowth;  after 
him  appeared  Lorenzo  Surprenant  offering 
other  gifts, — visions  of  beautiful  distant  cities, 
of  a  life  abounding  in  unknown  wonders. 
When  Eutrope  spoke,  it  was  in  a  shamefaced 
halting  way,  as  though  he  foresaw  defeat, 
knowing  full  well  that  he  bore  little  in  his 
hands  wherewith  to  tempt  her. 

[213] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Boldly  enough  he  asked  Maria  to  walk 
with  him,  but  when  they  were  dressed  and 
outside  the  door,  they  saw  that  snow  was 
falling.  Maria  stood  dubiously  on  the  step, 
a  hand  on  the  latch  as  though  she  would 
return;  and  Eutrope,  unwilling  to  lose  his 
chance,  began  forthwith  to  speak — hastening 
as  though  doubtful  that  he  would  be  able  to 
say  all  that  was  in  his  mind. 

"You  know  very  well,  Maria,  how  I  feel 
toward  you.  I  said  nothing  before  as  my 
farm  was  not  so  forward  that  we  could  live 
there  comfortably,  and  moreover  I  guessed 
that  you  liked  Frangois  Paradis  better  than 
me.  But  as  Francois  is  no  longer  here,  and 
this  young  fellow  from  the  States  is  courting 
you,  I  said  to  myself  that  I,  too,  might  try  my 
fortune  .  .  ." 

The  snow  was  coming  now  in  serried  flakes, 
fluttering  whitely  for  an  instant  against  the 
darkly-encircling  forest,  on  the  way  to  join 
that  other  snow  with  which  five  months  of 
winter  had  burdened  the  earth. 

"  It  is  true  enough  that  I  am  not  rich;  but  I 
have  two  lots  of  my  own,  paid  for  out  and  out, 
and  you  know  the  soil  is  good.  I  shall  work  on 

[214] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

it  all  spring,  take  the  stumps  out  of  the  large 
field  below  the  ridge  of  rock,  put  up  some 
fences,  and  by  May  there  will  be  a  fine  big 
field  ready  for  seeding.  I  shall  sow  a  hundred 
and  thirty  bushels,  Maria, — a  hundred  and 
thirty  bushels  of  wheat,  barley  and  oats,  with 
out  reckoning  an  acre  of  mixed  grain  for  the 
cattle.  All  the  seed,  the  best  seed-grain,  I  am 
going  to  buy  at  Roberval,  settling  for  it  on  the 
spot  ...  I  have  the  money  put  aside;  I  shall 
pay  cash,  without  running  into  debt  to  a  soul, 
and  if  only  we  have  an  average  season  there 
will  be  a  fine  crop  to  harvest.  Just  think  of  it, 
Maria,  a  hundred  and  thirty  bushels  of  good 
seed  in  first-rate  land!  And  in  the  summer 
before  the  hay-making,  and  then  again  before 
the  harvest,  will  be  the  best  chance  for  build 
ing  a  nice  tight  warm  little  house,  all  of  tama 
rack.  I  have  the  wood  ready,  cut  and  piled 
behind  my  barn;  my  brother  will  help  me, 
perhaps  Esdras  and  Da'Be  as  well,  when  they 
get  home.  Next  winter  I  shall  go  to  the 
shanties,  taking  a  horse  with  me,  and  in  the 
spring  I  shall  bring  back  not  less  than  two 
hundred  dollars  in  my  pocket.  Then,  should 

[215] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

you  be  willing  to  wait  so  long  for  me,  would  be 
the  time  .  .  ." 

Maria  was  leaning  against  the  door,  a  hand 
still  upon  the  latch,  her  eyes  turned  away. 
Eutrope  Gagnon  had  just  this  and  no  more  to 
offer  her:  after  a  year  of  waiting  that  she 
should  become  his  wife,  and  live  as  now  she 
was  doing  in  another  wooden  house  on  an 
other  half-cleared  farm  .  .  .  Should  do  the 
household  work  and  the  cooking,  milk  the 
cows,  clean  the  stable  when  her  man  was 
away — labour  in  the  fields  perhaps,  since  she 
was  strong  and  there  would  be  but  two  of 
them  .  .  .  Should  spend  her  evenings  at  the 
spinning-wheel  or  in  patching  old  clothes 
.  .  .  Now  and  then  in  summer  resting  for 
half  an  hour,  seated  on  the  door-step,  looking 
across  their  scant  fields  girt  by  the  measure 
less  frowning  woods;  or  in  winter  thawing 
a  little  patch  with  her  breath  on  the  window- 
pane,  dulled  with  frost,  to  watch  the  snow  fall 
ing  on  the  wintry  earth  and  the  forest  .  .  . 
The  forest  .  .  .  Always  the  inscrutable, 
inimical  forest,  with  a  host  of  dark  things  hid 
ing  there — closed  round  them  with  a  savage 
grip  that  must  be  loosened  little  by  little,  year 

[216] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

by  year;  a  few  acres  won  each  spring  and 
autumn  as  the  years  pass,  throughout  all  the 
long  days  of  a  dull  harsh  life  ...  No,  that 
she  could  not  face  .  .  . 

"I  know  well  enough  that  we  shall  have  to 
work  hard  at  first,"  Eutrope  went  on,  "but 
you  have  courage,  Maria,  and  are  well  used  to 
labour,  as  I  am.  I  have  always  worked  hard; 
no  one  can  say  that  I  was  ever  lazy,  and 
if  only  you  will  marry  me  it  will  be  my  joy  to 
toil  like  an  ox  all  the  day  long  to  make  a  thriv 
ing  place  of  it,  so  that  we  shall  be  in  comfort 
before  old  age  comes  upon  us.  I  do  not  touch 
drink,  Maria,  and  truly  I  love  you  ..." 

His  voice  quivered,  and  he  put  out  his  hand 
toward  the  latch  to  take  hers,  or  perhaps  to 
hinder  her  from  opening  the  door  and  leaving 
him  without  his  answer. 

"My  affection  for  you  ...  of  that  I  am 
not  able  to  speak  ..." 

Never  a  word  did  she  utter  in  reply.  Once 
more  a  young  man  was  telling  his  love,  was 
placing  in  her  hands  all  he  had  to  give;  and 
once  more  she  could  but  hearken  in  mute  em 
barrassment,  only  saved  from  awkwardness 
by  her  immobility  and  silence.  Town-bred 
[217] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

girls  had  thought  her  stupid,  when  she  was 
but  honest  and  truthful;  very  close  to  nature 
which  takes  no  account  of  words.  In  other 
days  when  life  was  simpler  than  now  it  is, 
when  young  men  paid  their  court — master 
fully  and  yet  half  bashfully — to  some  deep- 
bosomed  girl  in  the  ripe  fullness  of  woman 
hood  who  had  not  heard  nature's  imperious 
command,  she  must  have  listened  thus,  in 
silence;  less  attentive  to  their  pleading  than 
to  the  inner  voice,  guarding  herself  by  dis 
tance  against  too  ardent  a  wooing,  whilst  she 
awaited  .  .  .  The  three  lovers  of  Maria 
Chapdelaine  were  not  drawn  to  her  by  any 
charm  of  gracious  speech,  but  by  her  sheer 
comeliness,  and  the  transparent  honest  heart 
dwelling  hi  her  bosom ;  when  they  spoke  to  her 
of  love  she  was  true  to  herself,  steadfast  and 
serene,  saying  no  word  where  none  was  need 
ful  to  be  said,  and  for  this  they  loved  her  only 
the  more. 

"This  young  fellow  from  the  States  was 
ready  with  fine  speeches,  but  you  must  not  be 
carried  away  by  them  ..."  He  caught  a 
hint  of  dissent  and  changed  his  tone. 

[218] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"  Of  course  you  are  quite  free  to  choose,  and 
I  have  not  a  word  to  say  against  him.  But 
you  would  be  happier  here,  Maria,  amongst 
people  like  yourself." 

Through  the  falling  snow  Maria  gazed  at 
the  rude  structure  of  planks,  between  stable 
and  barn,  which  her  father  and  brother  had 
thrown  together  five  years  before;  unsightly 
and  squalid  enough  it  appeared,  now  that  her 
fancy  had  begun  to  conjure  up  the  stately 
buildings  of  the  town.  Close  and  ill-smelling, 
the  floor  littered  with  manure  and  foul  straw, 
the  pump  in  one  corner  that  was  so  hard  to 
work  and  set  the  teeth  on  edge  with  its  grid 
ing;  the  weather-beaten  outside,  buffeted  by 
wind  and  never-ending  snow — sign  and  sym 
bol  of  what  awaited  her  were  she  to  marry  one 
like  Eutrope  Gagnon,  and  accept  as  her  lot  a 
lifetime  of  rude  toil  in  this  sad  and  desolate 
land  .  .  .  She  shook  her  head. 

"I  cannot  answer,  Eutrope,  either  yes  or 
no;  not  just  now.  I  have  given  no  promise. 
You  must  wait." 

It  was  more  than  she  had  said  to  Lorenzo 
Surprenant,  and  yet  Lorenzo  had  gone  away 
with  hope  in  his  heart,  while  Eutrope  felt  that 

[219] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

he  had  made  his  throw  and  lost.  Departing 
alone,  the  snow  soon  hid  him.  She  entered 
the  house. 

March  dragged  through  its  melancholy 
days;  cold  winds  drove  the  gray  clouds  back 
and  forth  across  the  sky,  and  swept  the  snow 
hither  and  thither;  one  must  needs  consult 
the  calendar  of  the  Roberval  grain  merchant 
to  get  an  inkling  that  spring  was  drawing 
near. 

Succeeding  days  were  to  Maria  like  those 
that  had  gone  before,  each  one  bringing  its 
familiar  duties  and  the  same  routine;  but  the 
evenings  were  different,  and  were  filled  with 
pathetic  strivings  to  think.  Beyond  doubt  her 
parents  had  guessed  the  truth;  but  they  were 
unwilling  to  force  her  reserve  with  their  ad 
vice,  nor  did  she  seek  it.  She  knew  that  it 
rested  with  her  alone  to  make  a  choice,  to 
settle  the  future  course  of  her  life,  and  she  felt 
like  a  child  at  school,  standing  on  a  platform 
before  watchful  eyes,  bidden  to  find  by  herself 
the  answer  to  some  knotty  question. 

And  this  was  her  problem:  when  a  girl  is 
grown  to  womanhood,  when  she  is  good-look- 

[220] 


MARIA  GHAPDELAINE 

ing,  healthy  and  strong,  clever  in  all  that  per 
tains  to  the  household  and  the  farm,  young 
men  come  and  ask  her  to  marry,  and  she  must 
say  "Yes"  to  this  one  and  "No"  to  another. 

If  only  Frangois  Paradis  had  not  vanished 
forever  in  the  great  lonely  woods,  all  were 
then  so  plain.  No  need  to  ask  herself  what 
she  ought  to  do;  she  would  have  gone  straight 
to  him,  guided  by  a  wise  instinct  that  she 
might  not  gainsay,  sure  of  doing  what  was 
right  as  a  child  that  obeys  a  command.  But 
Francois  was  gone;  neither  in  the  promised 
springtime  nor  ever  again  to  return,  and  the 
cure  of  St.  Henri  forbade  regrets  that  would 
prolong  the  awaiting. 

Ah,  dear  God!  How  happy  had  been  the 
early  days  of  this  awaiting!  As  week  followed 
week  something  quickened  in  her  heart  and 
shot  upward,  like  a  rich  and  beauteous  sheaf 
whose  opening  ears  bend  low  under  their 
weight.  Happiness  beyond  any  dream  came 
dancing  to  her  .  .  .  No,  it  was  stronger  and 
keener  yet,  this  joy  of  hers.  It  had  been  a 
great  light  shining  in  the  twilight  of  a  lonely 
land,  a  beacon  toward  which  one  journeys, 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

forgetful  of  the  tears  that  were  about  to  flow, 
saying  with  glad  defiance:  "I  knew  it  well — 
knew  that  somewhere  on  the  earth  was  such  a 
thing  as  this  .  .  ."  It  was  over.  Yes,  the 
gleam  was  gone.  Henceforth  must  she  forget 
that  once  it  had  shone  upon  her  path,  and 
grope  through  the  dark  with  faltering  steps. 

Chapdelaine  and  Tit 'Be  were  smoking  in 
silence  by  the  stove ;  the  mother  knitted  stock 
ings;  Chien,  stretched  out  with  his  head  be 
tween  his  paws,  blinked  sleepily  in  enjoyment 
of  the  good  warmth.  Telesphore  had  dozed  off 
with  the  catechism  open  on  his  knees,  and 
the  little  Alma  Rose,  not  yet  in  bed,  was 
hovering  in  doubt  between  the  wish  to  draw 
attention  to  her  brother's  indolence,  and  a 
sense  of  shame  at  thus  betraying  him. 

Maria  looked  down  again,  took  her  work  in 
hand,  and  her  simple  mind  pursued  a  little 
further  its  puzzling  train  of  thought.  When  a 
girl  does  not  feel,  or  feels  no  longer,  that  deep 
mysterious  impulse  toward  a  man  singled  out 
from  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  what  is  left  to 
guide  her?  For  what  things  should  she  seek  in 
her  marriage?  For  a  satisfying  life,  surely;  to 
make  a  happy  home  for  herself  .  .  . 

[222] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Her  parents  would  like  her  to  marry  Eu- 
trope  Gagnon — that  she  felt — because  she 
would  live  near  them,  and  again  because  this 
life  upon  the  land  was  the  only  one  they  knew, 
and  they  naturally  thought  it  better  than  any 
other.  Eutrope  was  a  fine  fellow,  hard-work 
ing  and  of  kindly  disposition,  and  he  loved 
her;  but  Lorenzo  Surprenant  also  loved  her; 
he,  likewise,  was  steady  and  a  good  worker; 
he  was  a  Canadian  at  heart,  not  less  than 
those  amongst  whom  she  lived;  he  went  to 
church  .  .  .  And  he  offered  as  his  splendid 
gift  a  world  dazzling  to  the  eye,  all  the  won 
ders  of  the  city.  He  would  rescue  her  from 
this  oppression  of  frozen  earth  and  gloomy 
forest. 

She  could  not  as  yet  resolve  to  say  to  her 
self:  "I  will  marry  Lorenzo  Surprenant,"  but 
her  heart  had  made  its  choice.  The  cruel 
north-west  wind  that  heaped  the  snow  above 
Frangois  Paradis  at  the  foot  of  some  desolate 
cypress  bore  also  to  her  on  its  wings  the  frown 
and  the  harshness  of  the  country  wherein  she 
dwelt,  and  filled  her  with  hate  of  the  northern 
winter,  the  cold,  the  whitened  ground  and  the 
loneliness,  of  that  boundless  forest  unheedful 

[223] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

of  the  destinies  of  men  where  every  melan 
choly  tree  is  fit  to  stand  in  a  home  of  the  dead. 
LoYe — all-compelling  love — for  a  brief  space 
nad  dwelt  within  her  heart  .  .  .  Mighty 
flame,  scorching  and  bright,  quenched  now, 
and  never  to  revive.  It  left  her  spirit  empty 
and  yearning;  she  was  fain  to  seek  forgetful- 
ness  and  cure  in  that  life  afar,  among  the 
myriad  paler  lights  of  the  city. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
INTO  THE  DEEP  SILENCE 


There  came  an  evening  in  April  when. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
INTO  THE  DEEP  SILENCE 


HERE  came  an  evening  in  April 
when  Madame  Chapdelaine  would 
not  take  her  place  at  the  supper 
table  with  the  others. 

"There  are  pains  through  my 
body  and  I  have  no  appetite,"  she 
said,  "  I  must  have  strained  myself  to-day  lift 
ing  a  bag  of  flour  when  I  was  making  bread. 
Now  something  catches  me  in  the  back,  and 
I  am  not  hungry." 

No  one  answered  her.  Those  living  shel 
tered  lives  take  quick  alarm  when  the  mech 
anism  of  one  of  their  number  goes  wrong, 
but  people  who  wrestle  with  the  earth  for  a 
living  feel  little  surprise  if  their  labours  are 
too  much  for  them  now  and  then,  and  the 
body  gives  way  in  some  fibre. 

While  father  and  children  supped,  Ma 
dame  Chapdelaine  sat  very  still  in  her  chair 
beside  the  stove.  She  drew  her  breath  hard, 
and  her  broad  face  was  working. 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

"I  am  going  to  bed,"  she  said  presently. 
"  A  good  night's  sleep,  and  to-morrow  morning 
I  shall  be  all  right  again;  have  no  doubt  of 
that.  You  will  see  to  the  baking,  Maria." 

And  indeed  in  the  morning  she  was  up  at 
her  usual  hour,  but  when  she  had  made  the 
batter  for  the  pancakes  pain  overcame  her, 
and  she  had  to  lie  down  again.  She  stood  for 
a  minute  beside  the  bed,  with  both  hands 
pressed  against  her  back,  and  made  certain 
that  the  daily  tasks  would  be  attended  to. 

"You  will  give  the  men  their  food,  Maria, 
and  your  father  will  lend  you  a  hand  at  milk 
ing  the  cows  if  you  wish  it.  I  am  not  good  for 
anything  this  morning." 

"It  will  be  all  right,  mother;  it  will  be 
all  right.  Take  it  quietly;  we  shall  have  no 
trouble." 

For  two  days  she  kept  her  bed,  with  a 
watchful  eye  over  everything,  directing  all 
the  household  affairs. 

"Don't  be  in  the  least  anxious,"  her  hus 
band  urged  again  and  again.  "There  is 
hardly  anything  to  be  done  in  the  house  be 
yond  the  cooking,  and  Maria  is  quite  fit  to 
look  after  that — everything  else  too,  by 

[228] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

thunder!  She  is  not  a  little  child  any  longer, 
and  is  as  capable  as  yourself.  Lie  there 
quietly,  without  stirring;  and  be  easy  in  your 
mind,  instead  of  tossing  about  all  the  time 
under  the  blankets  and  making  yourself 


worse." 


On  the  third  day  she  gave  up  thinking 
about  the  cares  of  the  house  and  began  to  be 
moan  herself. 

"  Oh  my  God ! "  she  wailed.  "  I  have  pains 
all  over  my  body,  and  my  head  is  burning.  I 
think  that  I  am  going  to  die." 

Her  husband  tried  to  cheer  her  with  his 
clumsy  pleasantries.  "You  are  going  to  die 
when  the  good  God  wills  it,  and  according  to 
my  way  of  thinking  that  will  not  be  for  a 
while  yet.  What  would  He  be  doing  with 
you?  Heaven  is  all  cluttered  with  old  women, 
and  down  here  we  have  only  the  one,  and  she 
is  able  to  make  herself  a  bit  useful,  every 
now  and  then  ..."  But  he  was  beginning 
to  feel  anxious,  and  took  counsel  with  his 
daughter. 

"I  could  put  the  horse  in  and  go  as  far  as 
La  Pipe,"  he  suggested.  "  It  may  be  that  they 
have  some  medicine  for  this  sickness  at  the 

[229] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

store;  or  I  might  talk  things  over  with  the 
cure,  and  he  would  tell  me  what  to  do." 

Before  they  had  made  up  their  minds  night 
had  fallen,  and  Tit'Be,  who  had  been  at 
Eutrope  Gagnon's  helping  him  to  saw  his 
firewood,  came  back  bringing  Eutrope  along 
with  hun. 

"Eutrope  has  a  remedy,"  said  he.  They  all 
gathered  round  Eutrope,  who  took  a  little  tin 
box  from  his  pocket  and  opened  it  deliber 
ately. 

"  This  is  what  I  have,"  he  announced  rather 
dubiously.  "They  are  little  pills.  When  my 
brother  was  bad  with  his  kidneys  three  years 
ago  he  saw  an  advertisement  in  a  paper  about 
these  pills,  and  it  said  they  were  the  proper 
thing,  so  he  sent  the  money  for  a  box,  and  he 
declares  it  is  a  good  medicine.  Of  course  his 
trouble  did  not  leave  him  at  once,  but  he  says 
that  this  did  him  good.  It  comes  from  the 
States  .  .  ." 

Without  word  said  they  looked  at  the  little 
gray  pills  rolling  about  on  the  bottom  of  the 
box  ...  A  remedy  compounded  by  some 
man  in  a  distant  land  famed  for  his  wis 
dom  .  .  .  And  they  felt  the  awe  of  the  sav- 

[230] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

age  for  his  broth  of  herbs  simmered  on  a 
night  of  the  full  moon  beneath  the  medicine 
man's  incantations. 

Maria  asked  doubtfully :  "  Is  it  certain  that 
her  trouble  has  only  to  do  with  the  kidneys?  " 

"I  thought  it  was  just  that,  from  what 
Tit'Be  told  me." 

A  motion  of  Chapdelaine's  hand  eked  out 
his  words : — "She  strained  herself  lifting  a  bag 
of  flour,  as  she  says;  and  now  she  has  pains 
everywhere.  How  can  we  tell  ..." 

"The  newspaper  that  spoke  of  this  med 
icine,"  Eutrope  Gagnon  went  on,  "put  it 
that  whenever  a  person  falls  sick  and  is  in 
pain  it  is  always  the  kidneys;  and  for  trouble 
in  the  kidneys  these  pills  here  are  first-rate. 
That  is  what  the  paper  said,  and  my  brother 
as  well." 

"Even  if  they  are  not  for  this  very  sick 
ness,"  said  Tit'Be  deferentially,  "they  are  a 
remedy  all  the  same." 

"She  suffers,  that  is  one  thing  certain;  we 
cannot  let  her  go  on  like  this." 

They  drew  near  the  bed  where  the  sick 
woman  was  moaning  and  breathing  heavily, 
attempting  from  time  to  time  to  make  slight 
[231] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

movements  which  were  followed  by  sharper 
outcries. 

"Eutrope  has  brought  you  a  cure,  Laura." 

"I  have  no  faith  in  your  cures,"  she 
groaned  out.  But  yet  she  was  ready  to  look 
at  the  little  gray  pills  ever  running  round  in 
the  tin  box  as  if  they  were  alive. 

"  My  brother  took  some  of  these  three  years 
ago  when  he  had  the  kidney  trouble  so  badly 
that  he  was  hardly  able  to  work  at  all,  and  he 
says  that  they  cured  him.  It  is  a  fine  remedy, 
Madame  Ghapdelaine,  there  is  not  a  question 
of  it!"  His  former  doubts  had  vanished  in 
speech  and  he  felt  wholly  confident.  "  This  is 
going  to  cure  you,  Madame  Ghapdelaine,  as 
surely  as  the  good  God  is  above  us.  It  is  a 
medicine  of  the  very  first  class;  my  brother 
had  it  sent  expressly  from  the  States.  You 
may  be  sure  that  you  would  never  find  a 
medicine  like  this  in  the  store  at  La  Pipe." 

"  It  cannot  make  her  worse?  "  Maria  asked, 
some  doubt  lingering.  "  It  is  not  a  poison,  or 
anything  of  that  sort?" 

With  one  voice,  in  an  indignant  tone,  the 
three  men  protested:  "Do  harm?  Tiny  pills 
no  bigger  than  that!" 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"My  brother  took  nearly  a  box  of  them, 
and  according  to  his  account  it  was  only  good 
they  did  him." 

When  Eutrope  departed  he  left  the  box  of 
pills;  the  sick  woman  had  not  yet  agreed  to 
try  them,  but  her  objections  grew  weaker  at 
their  urging.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  she 
took  a  couple,  and  two  more  in  the  morning, 
and  as  the  hours  passed  they  all  waited  in  con 
fidence  for  the  virtue  of  the  medicine  to  de 
clare  itself.  But  toward  midday  they  had  to 
bow  to  the  facts:  she  was  no  easier  and  did 
not  cease  her  moaning.  By  evening  the  box 
was  empty,  and  at  the  falling  of  night  her 
groans  were  filling  the  household  with 
anguished  distress,  all  the  keener  as  they 
had  no  medicine  now  in  which  to  place  their 
trust. 

Maria  was  up  several  times  in  the  night, 
aroused  by  her  mother's  more  piercing  cries; 
she  always  found  her  lying  motionless  on  her 
side,  and  this  position  seemed  to  increase  the 
suffering  and  the  stiffness,  so  that  her  groans 
were  pitiful  to  hear. 

"What  ails  you,  mother?  Are  you  not 
feeling  any  better?" 

[233] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

"Ah  God,  how  I  suffer!  How  I  do  suffer! 
I  cannot  stir  myself,  not  the  least  hit,  and 
even  so  the  pain  is  as  bad  as  ever.  Give  me 
some  cold  water,  Maria;  I  have  the  most 
terrible  thirst." 

Several  times  Maria  gave  her  mother 
water,  but  at  last  she  became  afraid.  "  May 
be  it  is  not  good  for  you  to  drink  so  much. 
Try  to  bear  the  thirst  for  a  little." 

"But  I  cannot  bear  it,  I  tell  you — the 
thirst  and  the  pain  all  through  my  body, 
and  my  head  that  burns  like  fire  .  .  .  My 
God!  It  is  certain  that  I  am  to  die." 

A  little  before  daylight  they  both  fell 
asleep;  but  soon  Maria  was  awakened  by  her 
father  who  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder 
and  whispered: — "I  am  going  to  harness  the 
horse  to  go  to  Mistook  for  the  doctor,  and  on 
the  way  through  La  Pipe  I  shall  also  speak  to 
the  cure.  It  is  heart-breaking  to  hear  her 
moan  like  this." 

Her  eyes  open  in  the  ghostly  dawn,  Maria 
gave  ear  to  the  sounds  of  his  departure:  the 
banging  of  the  stable  door  against  the  wall; 
the  horse's  hoofs  thudding  on  the  wood  of  the 
alley;  muffled  commands  to  Charles  Eugene: 

[234] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"Hold  up,  there!  Back  .  .  .  Back  up! 
Whoa!"  Then  the  tinkle  of  the  sleigh-bells. 
In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  sick  woman 
groaned  two  or  three  times  in  her  sleep;  Maria 
watched  the  wan  light  stealing  into  the  house 
and  thought  of  her  father's  journey,  trying 
to  reckon  up  the  distances  he  must  travel. 

From  their  house  to  Honfleur,  eight  miles; 
from  Honfleur  to  La  Pipe,  six.  There  her 
father  would  speak  with  the  cure,  and  then 
pursue  his  way  to  Mistook.  She  corrected 
herself,  and  for  the  ancient  Indian  name  that 
the  people  of  the  country  use,  gave  it  the 
official  one  bestowed  in  baptism  by  the 
church — St.  Cceur  de  Marie.  From  La  Pipe 
to  St.  Cceur  de  Marie,  eight  miles  .  .  . 
Eight  and  six  and  then  eight.  Growing  con 
fused,  she  said  to  herself: — "Anyway  it  is  far, 
and  the  roads  will  be  heavy." 

Again  she  felt  affrighted  at  their  loneliness, 
which  once  hardly  gave  her  a  thought.  All 
was  well  enough  when  people  were  in  health 
and  merry,  and  one  had  no  need  of  help;  but 
with  trouble  or  sickness  the  woods  around 
seemed  to  shut  them  cruelly  away  from  all 
succour — the  woods  where  horses  sink  to  the 

[235] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

chest  in  snow,  where  storms  smother  one  in 
mid-April. 

The  mother  strove  to  turn  in  her  sleep, 
waked  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  and  the  con 
tinual  moaning  began  anew.  Maria  rose  and 
sat  by  the  bed,  thinking  of  the  long  day  just 
beginning  in  which  she  would  have  neither 
help  nor  counsel. 

All  the  dragging  hours  were  burdened  with 
lamentable  sound;  the  groaning  from  the  bed 
where  the  sick  woman  lay  never  ceased,  and 
haunted  the  narrow  wooden  dwelling.  Now 
and  then  some  household  noise  broke  in  upon 
it:  the  clashing  of  plates,  the  clang  of  the 
opened  stove  door,  the  sound  of  feet  on  the 
planking,  Tit'Be  stealing  into  the  house, 
clumsy  and  anxious,  to  ask  for  news. 

"Is  she  no  better?" 

Maria  answered  by  a  movement  of  the 
head.  They  both  stood  gazing  for  a  time  at 
the  motionless  figure  under  the  woollen  blan 
kets,  giving  ear  to  the  sounds  of  distress;  then 
Tit'B6  departed  to  his  small  outdoor  duties. 
When  Maria  had  put  the  house  in  order  she 
took  up  her  patient  watching,  and  the  sick 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

woman's  agonizing  wails  seemed  to  reproach 
her. 

From  hour  to  hour  she  kept  reckoning  the 
times  and  the  distances.  "My  father  should 
not  be  far  from  St.  Coeur  de  Marie  ...  If 
the  doctor  is  there  they  will  rest  the  horse  for 
a  couple  of  hours  and  come  back  together. 
But  the  roads  must  be  very  bad;  at  this  time, 
in  the  spring,  they  are  sometimes  hardly 
passable." 

And  then  a  little  later: — "They  should 
have  left;  perhaps  in  going  through  La  Pipe 
they  will  stop  to  speak  to  the  cure;  perhaps 
again  he  may  have  started  as  soon  as  he 
heard,  without  waiting  for  them.  In  that  case 
he  might  be  here  at  any  moment." 

But  the  fall  of  night  brought  no  one,  and  it 
was  only  about  seven  o'clock  that  the  sound 
of  sleigh-bells  was  heard,  and  her  father  and 
the  doctor  arrived.  The  latter  came  into  the 
house  alone,  put  his  bag  on  the  table  and  be 
gan  to  pull  off  his  overcoat,  grumbling  all  the 
while. 

"With  the  roads  in  this  condition,"  said 
he,  "it  is  no  small  affair  to  get  about  and  visit 
the  sick.  And  as  for  you  folk,  you  seem  to 

[237] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

have  hidden  yourselves  as  far  in  the  woods  as 
you  could.  Great  Heavens !  You  might  very 
well  all  die  without  a  soul  coming  to  help 
you." 

After  warming  himself  for  a  little  while  at 
the  stove  he  approached  the  bedside.  "  Well, 
good  mother,  so  we  have  taken  the  notion  to 
be  sick,  just  like  people  who  have  money  to 
spend  on  such  things!" 

But  after  a  brief  examination  he  ceased  to 
jest,  saying: — "She  really  is  sick,  I  do  be 
lieve." 

It  was  with  no  affectation  that  he  spoke  in 
the  fashion  of  the  peasantry;  his  grandfather 
and  his  father  were  tillers  of  the  soil,  and  he 
had  gone  straight  from  the  farm  to  study 
medicine  in  Quebec,  amongst  other  young 
fellows  for  the  most  part  like  himself — grand 
sons,  if  not  sons  of  farmers — who  had  all 
clung  to  the  plain  country  manners  and  the 
deliberate  speech  of  their  fathers.  He  was 
tall  and  heavily  built,  with  a  grizzled  mous 
tache,  and  his  large  face  wore  the  slightly 
aggrieved  expression  of  one  whose  native 
cheerfulness  is  being  continually  dashed 
through  listening  to  the  tale  of  others'  ills 

[238] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

for  which  he  is  bound  to  shoAV  a  decent  sym 
pathy. 

Chapdelaine  came  in  when  he  had  unhar 
nessed  and  fed  the  horse.  He  and  his  children 
sat  at  a  little  distance  while  the  doctor  was 
going  through  his  programme. 

Every  one  of  them  was  thinking: — "Pres 
ently  we  shall  know  what  is  the  matter,  and 
the  doctor  will  give  her  the  right  medicines." 
But  when  the  examination  was  ended,  instead 
of  turning  to  the  bottles  in  his  bag,  he  seemed 
uncertain  and  began  to  ask  interminable 
questions.  How  had  it  happened,  and  where, 
particularly,  did  she  feel  pain  .  .  .  Had  she 
ever  before  suffered  from  the  same  trouble 
.  .  .  The  answers  did  not  seem  to  enlighten 
him  very  much;  then  he  turned  to  the  sick 
woman  herself,  only  to  receive  confused 
statements  and  complaints. 

"  If  it  is  just  a  wrench  that  she  has  given 
herself,"  at  length  he  announced,  "she  will 
get  well  without  any  meddling;  there  is 
nothing  for  her  to  do  but  to  stay  quietly  in 
bed.  But  if  there  is  some  injury  within,  to  the 
kidneys  or  another  organ,  it  may  be  a  grave 
affair."  He  was  conscious  that  his  state  of 

[239] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

doubt  was  disappointing  to  the  Chapdelaines, 
and  was  anxious  to  restore  his  medical  repu 
tation. 

"Internal  lesions  are  serious  things,  and 
often  one  cannot  detect  them.  The  wisest 
man  in  the  world  could  tell  you  no  more  than 
I.  We  shall  have  to  wait  .  .  .  But  perhaps 
it  is  not  that  we  have  to  deal  with."  After 
some  further  investigation  he  shook  his 
head.  "Of  course  I  pan  give  something  that 
will  keep  her  from  suffering  like  this." 

The  leather  bag  now  disclosed  its  wonder 
working  phials;  fifteen  drops  of  a  yellowish 
drug  were  diluted  with  two  fingers  of  water, 
and  the  sick  woman,  lifted  up  in  bed,  man 
aged  to  swallow  this  with  sharp  cries  of  pain. 
Then  there  was  apparently  nothing  more  to 
be  done;  the  men  lit  their  pipes,  and  the 
doctor,  with  his  feet  against  the  stove,  held 
forth  as  to  his  professional  labours  and  the 
cures  he  had  wrought. 

"Illnesses  like  these,"  said  he,  "where  one 
cannot  discover  precisely  what  is  the  matter, 
are  more  baffling  to  a  doctor  than  the  gravest 
disorders — like  pneumonia  now,  or  even 
typhoid  fever  which  carry  off  three-quarters 

[240] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

of  the  people  hereabouts  who  do  not  die  of  old 
age.  Well,  typhoid  and  pneumonia,  I  cure 
these  every  month  in  the  year.  You  know 
Viateur  Tremblay,  the  postmaster  at  St. 
Henri  .  .  ." 

He  seemed  a  little  hurt  that  Madame  Chap- 
delaine  should  be  the  victim  of  an  obscure 
malady,  hard  to  diagnose,  and  had  not  been 
taken  down  with  one  of  the  two  complaints 
he  was  accustomed  to  treat  with  such  suc 
cess,  and  he  gave  an  account  by  chapter  and 
verse  of  the  manner  in  which  he  had  cured  the 
postmaster  of  St.  Henri.  From  that  they 
passed  on  to  the  country  news — news  carried 
by  word  of  mouth  from  house  to  house  around 
Lake  St.  John,  and  greeted  a  thousandfold 
more  eagerly  than  tidings  of  wars  and  fam 
ines,  since  the  gossipers  always  manage  to 
connect  it  with  friend  or  relative  in  a  country 
where  all  ties  of  kinship,  near  or  far,  are  borne 
scrupulously  in  mind. 

Madame  Chapdelaine  ceased  moaning  and 
seemed  to  be  asleep.  The  doctor,  considering 
that  he  had  done  all  that  was  expected  of 
him,  for  the  evening  at  least,  knocked  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  rose  to  go. 

[241] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

"  I  shall  sleep  at  Honfleur,"  said  he,  "  I  sup 
pose  your  horse  is  fit  to  take  me  so  far?  There 
is  no  need  for  you  to  come,  I  know  the  road. 
I  shall  stay  with  Ephrem  Surprenant,  and 
come  back  in  the  morning." 

Chapdelaine  was  a  little  slow  to  make  reply, 
recalling  the  stiff  day's  work  his  old  beast 
had  already  accomplished,  but  at  the  end  he 
went  out  to  harness  Charles  Eugene  once 
more.  In  a  few  minutes  the  doctor  was  on  the 
road,  leaving  the  family  to  themselves  as 
usual. 

A  great  stillness  reigned  in  the  house.  The 
comfortable  thought  was  with  them  all: — 
"Anyway  the  medicine  he  has  given  her  is  a 
good  one;  she  groans  no  longer."  But  scarce 
an  hour  had  gone  by  before  the  sick  woman 
ceased  to  feel  the  effect  of  the  too  feeble  drug, 
became  conscious  again,  tried  to  turn  herself 
in  bed  and  screamed  out  with  pain.  They 
were  all  up  at  once  and  crowding  about  her  in 
their  concern;  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  after 
groaning  in  an  agonized  way  began  to  weep 
unrestrainedly. 

"0  Samuel,  I  am  dying,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  it." 

[242] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

"No!  No!  You  must  not  think  that." 

"Yes,  I  know  that  I  am  dying.  I  feel  it. 
The  doctor  is  only  an  old  fool,  and  he  cannot 
tell  what  to  do.  He  is  not  even  able  to  say 
what  the  trouble  is,  and  the  medicine  he  gave 
me  is  useless;  it  has  done  me  no  good.  I  tell 
you  I  am  dying." 

The  failing  words  were  hindered  with  her 
groaning,  and  tears  coursed  down  the  heavy 
cheeks.  Husband  and  children  looked  at  her, 
struck  to  the  very  earth  with  grief.  The  foot 
step  of  death  was  sounding  in  the  house.  They 
knew  themselves  cut  off  from  all  the  world, 
helpless,  remote,  without  even  a  horse  to 
bring  them  succour.  The  cruel  treachery  of  it 
all  held  them  speechless  and  transfixed,  with 
streaming  eyes. 

In  their  midst  appeared  Eutrope  Gagnon. 

"  And  I  who  was  thinking  to  find  her  almost 
well.  This  doctor,  now  .  .  ." 

Chapdelaine  broke  out,  quite  beside  him 
self: — "This  doctor  is  not  a  bit  of  use,  and  I 
shall  tell  him  so  plainly,  myself.  He  came 
here,  he  gave  her  a  drop  of  some  miserable 
stuff  worth  nothing  at  all  in  the  bottom  of  a 
cup,  and  he  is  off  to  sleep  in  the  village  as  if 

[243] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

his  pay  was  earned!  Not  a  thing  has  he  done 
but  tire  out  my  horse,  but  he  shall  not  have  a 
copper  from  me,  not  a  single  copper  .  .  ." 

Eutrope's  face  was  very  grave,  and  he 
shook  his  head  as  he  declared: — "Neither 
have  I  any  faith  in  doctors.  Now  if  we  had 
only  thought  of  fetching  a  bone-setter — such 
a  man  as  Tit'Sebe  of  St.  Felicien  .  .  ." 
Every  face  was  turned  to  him  and  the  tears 
ceased  flowing. 

.  "Tit'Sebe!"  exclaimed  Maria.  "And  you 
think  he  could  help  in  a  case  like  this?  "  Both 
Eutrope  and  Chapdelaine  hastened  to  avow 
their  trust  in  him. 

"There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  Tit'Sebe 
can  make  people  well.  He  was  never  through 
the  schools,  but  he  knows  how  to  cure.  You 
heard  of  Nazaire  Gaudreau  who  fell  from  the 
top  of  a  barn  and  broke  his  back.  The  doctors 
came  to  see  him,  and  the  best  they  could  do 
was  to  give  the  Latin  name  for  his  hurt  and 
say  that  he  was  going  to  die.  Then  they  went 
and  fetched  Tit'Sebe,  and  Tit'Sebe  cured 
him."  Every  one  of  them  knew  the  nealer's 
repute  and  hope  sprang  up  again  in  their 
hearts. 

[244] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"Tit'Sebe  is  a  first-rate  man,  and  a  man 
who  knows  how  to  make  sick  people  well. 
Moreover  he  is  not  greedy  for  money.  You 
go  and  you  fetch  him,  you  pay  him  for  his 
time,  and  he  cures  you.  It  was  he  who  put 
little  Romeo  Boilly  on  his  legs  again  after 
being  run  over  by  a  wagon  loaded  with 
planks." 

The  sick  woman  had  relapsed  into  stupor, 
and  was  moaning  feebly  with  her  eyes 
closed. 

"  I  will  go  and  get  him  if  you  like,"  sug 
gested  Eutrope. 

"But  what  will  you  do  for  a  horse?"  asked 
Maria.  "The  doctor  has  Charles  Eugene  at 
Honfleur." 

Ghapdelaine  clenched  his  fist  in  wrath  and 
swore  through  his  teeth:— "The  old  rascal!" 

Eutrope  thought  a  moment  before  speak 
ing.  "It  makes  no  difference.  I  will  go  just 
the  same.  If  I  walk  to  Honfleur,  I  shall  easily 
find  someone  there  who  will  lend  me  a  horse 
and  sleigh — Racicot,  or  perhaps  old  Neron." 

"It  is  thirty-five  miles  from  here  to  St. 
Felicien  and  the  roads  are  heavy." 

"  I  will  go  just  the  same." 

[245] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

He  departed  forthwith,  thinking  as  he  went 
at  a  jog-trot  over  the  snow  of  the  grateful 
look  that  Maria  had  given  him.  The  family 
made  ready  for  the  night,  computing  mean 
while  these  new  distances  .  .  .  Seventy 
miles  there  and  back  .  .  .  Roads  deep  in 
snow.  The  lamp  was  left  burning,  and  til] 
morning  the  voice  from  the  bed  was  never 
hushed.  Sometimes  it  was  sharp  with  pain; 
sometimes  it  weakly  strove  for  breath.  Two 
hours  after  daylight  the  doctor  and  the  cure 
of  St.  Henri  appeared  together. 

"  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  come  sooner," 
the  cure  explained,  "  but  I  am  here  at  last,  and 
I  picked  up  the  doctor  in  the  village."  They 
sat  at  the  bedside  and  talked  in  low  tones. 
The  doctor  made  a  fresh  examination,  but  it 
was  the  cure  who  told  the  result  of  it.  "  There 
is  little  one  can  say.  She  does  not  seem  any 
worse,  but  this  is  not  an  ordinary  sickness. 
It  is  best  that  I  should  confess  her  and  give 
her  absolution;  then  we  shall  both  go  away 
and  be  back  again  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

He  returned  to  the  bed,  and  the  others 
went  over  and  sat  by  the  window.  For  some 
minutes  the  two  voices  were  heard  in  question 

[246] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

and  response;  the  one  feeble  and  broken  by 
suffering;  the  other  confident,  grave,  scarcely 
lowered  for  the  solemn  interrogation.  After 
some  inaudible  words  a  hand  was  raised  in  a 
gesture  which  instantly  bowed  the  heads  of 
all  those  in  the  house.  The  priest  rose. 

Before  departing  the  doctor  gave  Maria  a 
little  bottle  with  his  instructions.  "Only  if 
she  should  suffer  greatly,  so  that  she  cries  out, 
and  never  more  than  fifteen  drops  at  a  time. 
And  do  not  let  her  have  any  cold  water  to 
drink." 

She  saw  them  to  the  door,  the  bottle  in  her 
hand.  Before  getting  into  the  sleigh  the  cure 
took  Maria  aside  and  spoke  a  few  words  to 
her.  "Doctors  do  what  they  can,"  said  he  in 
a  simple  unaffected  way,  "but  only  God 
Himself  has  knowledge  of  disease.  Pray  with 
all  your  heart,  and  I  shall  say  a  mass  for  her 
to-morrow — a  high  mass  with  music,  you 
understand." 

All  day  long  Maria  strove  to  stay  the  hid 
den  advances  of  the  disorder  with  her  prayers, 
and  every  time  that  she  returned  to  the  bed 
side  it  was  with  a  half  hope  that  a  miracle  had 
been  wrought,  that  the  sick  woman  would 

[247] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

cease  from  her  groaning,  sleep  for  a  few  hours 
and  awake  restored  to  health.  It  was  not  so 
to  be;  the  moaning  ceased  not,  but  toward 
evening  it  died  away  to  sighing,  continual 
and  profound — nature's  protest  against  a  bur 
den  too  heavy  to  be  borne,  or  the  slow  inroad 
of  death-dealing  poison. 

About  midnight  came  Eutrope  Gagnon, 
bringing  Tit'S£be  the  bone-setter.  He  was  a 
little,  thin,  sad-faced  man  with  very  kind 
eyes.  As  always  when  called  to  a  sick-bed,  he 
wore  his  clothes  of  ceremony,  of  dark  well- 
worn  cloth,  which  he  bore  with  the  awkward 
ness  of  the  peasant  in  Sunday  attire.  But  the 
strong  brown  hands  beyond  the  thread-bare 
sleeves  moved  in  a  way  to  inspire  confidence. 
They  passed  over  the  limbs  and  body  of 
Madame  Ghapdelaine  with  the  most  delicate 
care,  nor  did  they  draw  from  her  a  single  cry 
of  pain;  thereafter  he  sat  for  a  long  time  mo 
tionless  beside  the  couch,  looking  at  her  as 
though  awaiting  guidance  from  a  source  be 
yond  himself.  But  when  at  last  he  broke  the 
silence  it  was  to  say:  "Have  you  sent  for  the 
cure?  .  .  .  He  has  been  here.  And  will  he 
return?  To-morrow;  that  is  well." 

[248] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

After  another  pause  he  made  his  frank 
avowal: — "There  is  nothing  I  can  do  for  her. 
Something  has  gone  wrong  within,  'about 
which  1  know  nothing;  were  there  broken 
bones  I  could  have  healed  them.  I  should 
only  have  had  to  feel  them  with  my  hands, 
and  then  the  good  God  would  have  told  me 
what  to  do  and  I  should  have  cured  her.  But 
in  this  sickness  of  hers  I  have  no  skill.  I  might 
indeed  put  a  blister  on  her  back,  and  perhaps 
that  would  draw  away  the  blood  and  relieve 
her  for  a  time.  Or  I  could  give  her  a  draught 
made  from  beaver  kidneys;  it  is  useful  when 
the  kidneys  are  affected,  as  is  well  known. 
But  I  think  that  neither  the  blister  nor  the 
draught  would  work  a  cure." 

His  speech  was  so  honest  and  straightfor 
ward  that  he  made  them  one  and  all  feel 
what  manner  of  thing  was  a  disorder  of  the 
human  frame — the  strangeness  and  the  terror 
of  what  is  passing  behind  the  closed  door, 
which  those  without  can  only  fight  clumsily 
as  they  grope  in  dark  uncertainty. 

"She  will  die  if  that  be  God's  pleasure." 

Maria  broke  into  quiet  tears;  her  father,  not 
yet  understanding,  sat  with  his  mouth  half- 

[249] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

open,  and  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  The 
bone-setter,  this  sentence  given,  bowed  his 
head  and  held  his  pitiful  eyes  for  long  upon 
the  sick  woman.  The  browned  hands  that 
now  availed  him  not  lay  upon  his  knees;  lean 
ing  forward  a  little,  his  back  bent,  the  gentle 
sad  spirit  seemed  in  silent  communion  with  its 
maker: — "Thou  hast  bestowed  upon  me  the 
gift  of  healing  bones  that  are  broken,  and  I 
have  healed  them;  but  Thou  hast  denied  me 
power  over  such  ills  as  these;  so  must  I  let 
this  poor  woman  die." 

For  the  first  time  now  the  deep  marks  of 
illness  upon  the  mother's  face  appeared  to 
husband  and  children  as  more  than  the  pass 
ing  traces  of  suffering,  as  imprints  from  the 
hand  of  death.  The  hard-drawn  breath  rat 
tling  in  her  throat  no  longer  betokened  con 
scious  pain,  but  was  the  last  blind  remon 
strance  of  thebody  rent  bynearing  dissolution. 

"You  do  not  think  she  will  die  before  the 
cure  comes  back?"  Maria  asked. 

Tit'Sebe's  head  and  hand  showed  that  he 
was  helpless  to  answer.  "I  cannot  tell  .  .  . 
If  your  horse  is  able  you  would  do  well  to  seek 
him.  with  the  daylight." 

[250] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Their  eyes  searched  the  window,  as  yet 
only  a  square  of  darkness,  and  then  returned 
to  her  who  lay  upon  the  bed  .  .  .  But  five 
days  ago  a  hearty,  high-spirited  woman,  in 
full  health  of  mind  and  body  ...  It  could 
not  be  that  she  was  to  die  so  soon  as  that. 
.  .  .  But  knowing  now  the  sad  inevitable- 
ness,  every  glance  found  a  subtle  change, 
some  fresh  token  that  this  bed-ridden  woman 
groaning  in  her  blindness  was  no  more  the 
wife  and  mother  they  had  known  so  long. 

Half  an  hour  went  by;  after  casting  his  eyes 
toward  the  window  Ghapdelaine  arose  hur 
riedly,  saying: — "  I  am  going  to  put  the  horse 


in." 


Tit'Sebe  nodded.  " That  is  well;  you  had 
better  harness;  it  is  near  day." 

"Yes.  I  am  going  to  put  the  horse  in," 
Ghapdelaine  repeated.  But  at  the  moment  of 
his  departure  it  swept  over  him  suddenly  that 
in  going  to  bring  the  Blessed  Sacrament  he 
would  be  upon  a  solemn  and  a  final  errand, 
significant  of  death.  The  thought  held  him 
still  irresolute.  "I  am  going  to  put  the  horse 
in."  Shifting  from  foot  to  foot,  he  gave  a  last 
look  at  his  wife  and  at  length  went  out. 

[251] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Not  long  after  the  coming  of  day  the  wind 
rose,  and  soon  was  sounding  hoarsely  about 
the  house.  "  It  is  from  the  nor' west ;  there  will 
be  a  blow,"  said  Tit'S£be. 

Maria  looked  toward  the  window  and 
sighed.  "Only  two  days  ago  snow  fell,  and 
now  it  will  be  raised  and  drift.  The  roads  were 
heavy  enough  before;  father  and  the  cure  are 
going  to  have  trouble  getting  through." 

But  the  bone-setter  shook  his  head.  "  They 
may  have  a  little  difficulty  on  the  road,  but 
they  will  get  here  all  the  same.  A  priest  who 
brings  the  Blessed  Sacrament  has  more  than 
the  strength  of  a  man."  His  mild  eyes  shone 
with  the  faith  that  knows  no  bounds. 

"Yes,  power  beyond  the  strength  of  a  man 
has  a  priest  bearing  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  It 
was  three  years  ago  that  they  summoned  me 
to  care  for  a  sick  man  on  the  lower  Mistassini; 
at  once  I  saw  that  I  could  do  nothing  for  him, 
and  I  bade  them  go  fetch  a  priest.  It  was 
night-time  and  there  was  not  a  man  in  the 
house,  the  father  himself  being  sick  and  his 
boys  quite  young.  And  so  at  the  last  it  was  I 
that  went.  On  the  way  back  we  had  to  cross 
the  river;  the  ice  had  just  gone  out — it  was  in 

[252] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

the  spring — and  as  yet  not  a  boat  had  been 
put  into  the  water.  We  found  a  great  heavy 
tub  that  had  been  lying  in  the  sand  all  winter, 
and  when  we  tried  to  run  her  down  to  the 
water  she  was  buried  so  deep  in  the  sand  and 
was  so  heavy  that  the  four  of  us  could  not  so 
much  as  make  her  budge.  Simon  Martel  was 
there,  big  Lalancette  of  St.  Methode,  a  third 
I  cannot  call  to  mind,  and  myself;  and  we 
four,  hauling  and  shoving  to  break  our  hearts 
as  we  thought  of  this  poor  fellow  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river  who  was  in  the  way  of  dying 
like  a  heathen,  could  not  stir  that  boat  a 
single  inch.  Well,  the  cure  came  forward;  he 
laid  his  hand  on  the  gunwale — just  laid  his 
hand  on  the  gunwale,  like  that — 'Give  one 
more  shove,'  said  he;  and  the  boat  seemed 
to  start  of  herself  and  slipped  down  to  the 
water  as  though  she  were  alive.  The  sick  man 
received  the  sacrament  all  right,  and  died 
like  a  Christian  just  as  day  was  breaking. 
Yes,  a  priest  has  strength  beyond  the  strength 
of  men." 

Maria  was  still  sighing,  but  her  heart  dis 
covered  a  melancholy  peace  in  the  certainty 
and  nearness  of  death.  This  unknown  dis- 

[253] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

order,  the  dread  of  what  might  be  coming, 
these  were  dark  and  terrifying  phantoms 
against  which  one  strove  blindly,  uncompre- 
hendingly.  But  when  one  was  face  to  face 
with  death  itself  all  to  be  done  was  plain — 
ordained  these  many  centuries  by  laws  be 
yond  dispute.  By  day  or  night,  from  far  or 
near,  the  cure  comes  bearing  the  Holy  Sacra 
ment — across  angry  rivers  in  the  spring,  over 
the  treacherous  ice,  along  roads  choked  with 
snow,  fighting  the  bitter  north-west  wind; 
aided  by  miracles,  he  never  fails;  he  fulfils  his 
sacred  office,  and  thenceforward  there  is  room 
for  neither  doubt  nor  fear.  Death  is  but  a 
glorious  preferment,  a  door  that  opens  to  the 
joys  unspeakable  of  the  elect. 

The  wind  had  risen  and  was  shaking  the 
partitions  as  window-panes  rattle  in  a  sudden 
gust.  The  nor 'wester  came  howling  over  the 
dark  tree-tops,  fell  upon  the  clearing  about 
the  little  wooden  buildings — house,  stable, 
barn — in  squalls  and  wicked  whirlwinds 
that  sought  to  lift  the  roof  and  smote  the 
walls  like  a  battering-ram,  before  sweeping 
onward  to  the  forest  in  a  baffled  fury. 

[254] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

The  house  trembled  from  hase  to  chimney- 
top,  and  swayed  on  its  foundation  in  such 
a  fashion  that  the  inmates,  feeling  the  on 
slaught,  hearing  the  roar  and  shriek  of  the  foe, 
were  almost  as  sensible  of  the  terrors  of  the 
storm  as  though  they  were  exposed  to  it; 
lacking  the  consciousness  of  safe  retreat  that 
belongs  to  those  who  are  sheltered  by  strong 
walls  of  stone. 

Tit'Sebe  cast  his  eyes  about.  "A  good 
house  you  have  here;  tightly  made  and  warm. 
Your  father  and  the  boys  built  it,  did  they 
not?  Moreover,  you  must  have  a  good  bit  of 
land  cleared  by  this  time  ..." 

So  loud  was  the  wind  that  they  did  not 
hear  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells,  and  suddenly 
the  door  flew  open  against  the  wall  and  the 
cure  of  St.  Henri  entered,  bearing  the  Host 
in  his  raised  hands.  Maria  and  Tit'Sebe  fell 
upon  their  knees;  Tit'Be  ran  to  shut  the 
door,  then  also  knelt.  The  priest  put  off  the 
heavy  fur  coat  and  the  cap  white  with  snow 
drawn  down  to  his  eyes,  and  instantly  ap 
proached  the  sick-bed  as  heaven's  envoy 
bringing  pardon  and  peace. 

[255] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Ah!  the  assurance,  the  comfort  of  the  di 
vine  promise  which  dispels  the  awful  mists  of 
death!  While  the  priest  performed  the  sacred 
rites,  and  his  low  words  mingled  with  the 
sighs  of  the  dying  woman,  Samuel  Chapde- 
laine  and  his  children  were  praying  with 
bended  heads;  in  some  sort  consoled,  released 
from  anxiousness  and  doubt,  confident  that  a 
sure  pact  was  then  concluding  with  the  Al 
mighty  for  the  blue  skies  of  Paradise  span 
gled  with  stars  of  gold  as  a  rightful  heritage. 

Afterwards  the  curS  warmed  himself  by  the 
stove;  then  they  prayed  together  for  a  time, 
kneeling  by  the  bed. 

Toward  four  o'clock  the  wind  leaped  to 
the  south-east,  and  the  storm  ended  swiftly 
as  a  broken  wave  sinks  backward  from  the 
shore;  in  the  strange  deep  silence  after  the 
tumult  the  mother  sighed,  sighed  once  again, 
and  died. 


[256] 


CHAPTER  XV 
THAT  WE  PERISH  NOT 


Ephrem  Surprenant  pushed  open  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THAT  WE  PERISH  NOT 

PHREM  SURPRENANT  pushed 
open  the  door  and  stood  upon  the 
threshold. 

"I  have  come  .  .  ."  He  found 
no  other  words,  and  waited  there 
motionless  for  a  few  seconds, 
tongue-tied,  while  his  eyes  travelled  from 
Ghapdelaine  to  Maria,  from  Maria  to  the 
children  who  sat  very  still  and  quiet  by  the 
table;  then  he  plucked  off  his  cap  hastily,  as  if 
in  amends  for  his  forgetfulness,  shut  the  door 
behind  him  and  moved  across  to  the  bed 
where  the  dead  woman  lay. 

They  had  altered  its  place,  turning  the 
head  to  the  wall  and  the  foot  toward  the 
centre  of  the  house,  so  that  it  might  be  ap 
proached  on  both  sides.  Close  to  the  wall  two 
lighted  candles  stood  on  chairs;  one  of  them 
set  in  a  large  candlestick  of  white  metal  which 
the  visitors  to  the  Chapdelaine  home  had 
never  seen  before,  while  for  holding  the  other 
Maria  had  found  nothing  better  than  a 

[259] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

glass  bowl  used  in  the  summer  time  for  blue 
berries  and  wild  raspberries,  on  days  of 
ceremony. 

The  candlestick  shone,  the  bowl  sparkled  in 
the  flames  which  lighted  but  feebly  the  face  of 
the  dead.  The  days  of  suffering  through 
which  she  had  passed,  or  death's  final  chill 
had  given  the  features  a  strange  pallor  and 
delicacy,  the  refinement  of  a  woman  bred  in 
the  city.  Father  and  children  were  at  first 
amazed,  and  then  perceived  in  this  the  tre 
mendous  consequence  of  her  translation  be 
yond  and  far  above  them. 

Ephrem  Surprenant  bent  his  eyes  upon  the 
face  for  a  little,  and  then  kneeled.  The  pray 
ers  he  began  to  murmur  were  inaudible,  but 
when  Maria  and  Tit'Be  came  and  knelt  be 
side  him  he  drew  from  a  pocket  his  string  of 
large  beads  and  began  to  tell  them  in  a  low 
voice.  The  chaplet  ended,  he  sat  himself  in 
silence  by  the  table,  shaking  his  head  sadly 
from  time  to  time  as  is  seemly  in  the  house  of 
mourning,  and  because  his  own  grief  was  deep 
and  sincere. 

At  last  he  discovered  speech.  "  It  is  a  heavy 
loss.  You  were  fortunate  in  your  wife,  Sam- 

[260] 


MAR   I   A          CHAPDELAINE 

uel;  no  one  may  question  that.  Truly  you 
were  fortunate  in  your  wife." 

This  said,  he  could  go  no  further;  he  sought 
in  vain  for  some  words  of  sympathy,  and  at 
the  end  stumbled  into  other  talk.  "The 
weather  is  quite  mild  this  evening;  we  soon 
shall  have  rain.  Everyone  is  saying  that  it  is 
to  be  an  early  spring." 

To  the  countryman,  all  things  touching  the 
soil  which  gives  him  bread,  and  the  alternate 
seasons  which  lull  the  earth  to  sleep  and 
awaken  it  to  life,  are  of  such  moment  that  one 
may  speak  of  them  even  in  the  presence  of 
death  with  no  disrespect.  Their  eyes  turned 
quite  naturally  to  the  square  of  the  little 
window,  but  the  night  was  black  and  they 
could  discern  nothing. 

Ephrem  Surprenant  began  anew  to  praise 
her  who  was  departed.  "In  all  the  parish 
there  was  not  a  braver-spirited  woman  than 
she,  nor  a  cleverer  housewife.  How  friendly 
too,  and  what  a  kind  welcome  she  always  gave 
a  visitor!  In  the  old  parishes — yes!  and  even 
in  the  towns  on  the  railway,  not  many  would 
be  found  to  match  her.  It  is  only  the  truth 
to  say  that  you  were  rarely  suited  in  your 

[261] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

wife  ..."  Soon  afterwards  he  rose,  and,  leav 
ing  the  house,  his  face  was  dark  with  sorrow. 

A  long  silence  followed,  in  which  Samuel 
Ghapdelaine's  head  nodded  slowly  towards 
his  breast  and  it  seemed  as  though  he  were 
falling  asleep.  Maria  spoke  quickly  to  him,  in 
fear  of  his  offending: — "Father!  Do  not 
sleep!" 

"No!  No!"  He  sat  up  straight  on  his 
chair  and  squared  his  shoulders  but  since  his 
eyes  were  closing  in  spite  of  him,  he  stood  up 
hastily,  saying: — "Let  us  recite  another 
chaplet." 

Kneeling  together  beside  the  bed,  they  told 
the  chaplet  bead  by  bead.  Rising  from  their 
knees  they  heard  the  rain  patter  against  the 
window  and  on  the  shingles.  It  was  the  first 
spring  rain  and  proclaimed  their  freedom:  the 
winter  ended,  the  soil  soon  to  reappear,  rivers 
once  more  running  their  joyous  course,  the 
earth  again  transformed  like  some  lovely  girl 
released  at  last  from  an  evil  spell  by  touch  of 
magic  wand.  But  they  did  not  allow  them 
selves  to  be  glad  in  this  house  of  death,  nor 
indeed  did  they  feel  the  happiness  of  it  in  the 
midst  of  their  hearts'  deep  affliction. 

[262] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

Opening  the  window  they  moved  back  to  it 
and  hearkened  to  the  tapping  of  the  great 
drops  upon  the  roof.  Maria  saw  that  her 
father's  head  had  fallen,  and  that  he  was  very 
still;  she  thought  his  evening  drowsiness  was 
mastering  him  again,  but  when  about  to 
waken  him  with  a  word,  he  it  was  who  sighed 
and  began  to  speak. 

"Ephrem  Surprenant  said  no  more  than 
the  truth.  Your  mother  was  a  good  woman, 
Maria;  you  will  not  find  her  like." 

Maria's  head  answered  him  "Yes,"  but  her 
lips  were  pressed  close. 

"  Full  of  courage  and  good  counsel,  that  she 
has  been  throughout  her  life;  but  it  was 
chiefly  in  the  early  days  after  we  were  mar 
ried,  and  then  again  when  Esdras  and  your 
self  were  little,  that  she  showed  herself  the 
woman  she  was.  The  wife  of  a  small  farmer 
looks  for  no  easy  life,  but  women  who  take 
to  their  work  as  well  and  as  cheerfully  as  she 
did  in  those  days,  Maria,  are  hard  to 
find." 

Maria  faltered: — "I  know,  father;  I  know 
it  well;"  and  she  dried  her  eyes  for  her  heart 
was  melting  into  tears. 

[263] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"When  we  took  up  our  first  land  at  Nor- 
mandin  we  had  two  cows  and  very  little  pas 
ture  for  them,  as  nearly  all  our  lot  was  in 
standing  timber  and  hard  to  win  for  the 
plough.  As  for  me,  I  picked  up  my  ax  and  I 
said  to  her: — ' Laura,  I  am  going  to  clear  land 
for  you.'  And  from  morning  till  night  it  was 
chop,  chop,  chop,  without  ever  coming  back 
to  the  house  except  for  dinner;  and  all  that 
time  she  did  the  work  of  the  house  and  the 
cooking,  she  looked  after  the  cattle,  mended 
the  fences,  cleaned  the  cow-shed,  never  rested 
from  her  toiling;  and  then  half-a-dozen  times 
a  day  she  would  come  outside  the  door  and 
stand  for  a  minute  looking  at  me,  over  there 
by  the  fringe  of  the  woods,  where  I  was  put 
ting  my  back  into  felling  the  birches  and  the 
spruce  to  make  a  patch  of  soil  for  her. 

"Then  in  the  month  of  July  our  well  must 
needs  dry  up;  the  cows  had  not  a  drop  of 
water  to  slake  their  thirst  and  they  almost 
stopped  giving  milk.  So  when  I  was  hard  at  it 
in  the  woods  the  mother  went  off  to  the  river 
with  a  pail  in  either  hand,  and  climbed  the 
steep  bluff  eight  or  ten  times  together  with 
these  brimming,  and  her  feet  that  slipped 

[264] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

back  in  the  running  sand,  till  she  had  filled 
a  barrel;  and  when  the  barrel  was  full  she 
got  it  on  a  wheelbarrow,  and  wheeled  it  off 
herself  to  empty  it  into  the  big  tub  in  the 
cow-pasture  more  than  three  hundred  yards 
from  the  house,  just  below  the  rocks.  It  was 
not  a  woman's  work,  and  I  told  her  often 
enough  to  leave  it  to  me,  but  she  always  spoke 
up  briskly: — *  Don't  you  think  about  that — 
don't  think  about  anything— clear  a  farm  for 
me.'  And  she  would  laugh  to  cheer  me  up, 
but  I  saw  well  enough  this  was  too  much  for 
her,  and  that  she  was  all  dark  under  the  eyes 
with  the  labour  of  it. 

"Well,  I  caught  up  my  ax  and  was  off  to 
the  woods;  and  I  laid  into  the  birches  so 
lustily  that  chips  flew  as  thick  as  your  wrist, 
all  the  time  saying  to  myself  that  the  wife  I 
had  was  like  no  other,  and  that  if  the  good 
God  only  kept  me  in  health  I  would  make  her 
the  best  farm  in  the  countryside." 

The  rain  was  ever  sounding  on  the  roof; 
now  and  then  a  gust  drove  against  the  win 
dow  great  drops  which  ran  down  the  panes 
like  slow-falling  tears.  Yet  a  few  hours  of 
rain  and  the  soil  would  be  bare,  streams  would 

[265] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINB 

dance  down  every  slope;  a  few  more  days  and 
they  would  hear  the  thundering  of  the  falls. 

"When  we  took  up  other  land  above  Mis- 
tassini,"  Samuel  Chapdelaine  continued,  "it 
was  the  same  thing  over  again;  heavy  work 
and  hardship  for  both  of  us  alike;  but  she  was 
always  full  of  courage  and  in  good  heart  .  .  . 
We  were  in  the  midst  of  the  forest,  but  as 
there  were  some  open  spaces  of  rich  grass 
among  the  rocks  we  took  to  raising  sheep. 
One  evening  ..."  He  was  silent  for  a  little, 
and  when  he  began  speaking  again  his  eyes 
were  fixed  intently  upon  Maria,  as  though  he 
wished  to  make  very  clear  to  her  what  he  was 
about  to  say. 

"It  was  in  September;  the  time  when  all 
the  great  creatures  of  the  woods  become  dan 
gerous.  A  man  from  Mistassini  who  was  com 
ing  down  the  river  in  a  canoe  landed  near  our 
place  and  spoke  to  us  thiswise: — 'Look  after 
your  sheep;  the  bears  came  and  killed  a  heifer 
last  week  quite  close  to  the  houses.'  So  your 
mother  and  I  went  off  that  evening  to  the 
pasture  to  drive  the  sheep  into  the  pen  for  the 
night  so  that  the  bears  would  not  devour 
them. 

[266] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

"  I  took  one  side  and  she  the  other,  as  the 
sheep  used  to  scatter  among  the  alders.  It 
was  growing  dark,  and  suddenly  I  heard 
Laura  cry  out:  'Oh,  the  scoundrels!'  Some 
animals  were  moving  in  the  bushes,  and  it  was 
plain  to  see  they  were  not  sheep,  because  in 
the  woods  toward  evening  sheej.  are  white 
patches.  So,  ax  in  hand,  I  started  off  running 
as  hard  as  I  could.  Later  on,  when  we  were  on 
the  way  back  to  the  house,  your  mother  told 
me  all  about  it.  She  had  come  across  a  sheep 
lying  dead,  and  two  bears  that  were  just  go 
ing  to  eat  it.  Now  it  takes  a  pretty  good  man, 
one  not  easily  frightened  and  with  a  gun  in  his 
hand,  to  face  a  bear  in  September;  as  for  a 
woman  empty-handed,  the  best  thing  she  can 
do  is  to  run  for  it  and  not  a  soul  will  blame 
her.  But  your  mother  snatched  a  stick  from 
the  ground  and  made  straight  for  the  bears, 
screaming  at  them: — 'Our  beautiful  fat 
sheep!  Be  off  with  you,  you  ugly  thieves,  or 
I  will  do  for  you!'  I  got  there  at  my  best 
speed,  leaping  over  the  stumps;  but  by  that 
time  the  bears  had  cleared  off  into  the  woods 
without  showing  fight,  scared  as  could  be,  be 
cause  she  had  put  the  fear  of  death  into  them." 

[267] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Maria  listened  breathlessly;  asking  herself 
if  it  was  really  her  mother  who  had  done  this 
thing — the  mother  whom  she  had  always 
known  so  gentle  and  tender-hearted;  who  had 
never  given  Telesphore  a  little  rap  on  the  head 
without  afterwards  taking  him  on  her  knees 
to  comfort  him,  adding  her  own  tears  to  his, 
and  declaring  that  to  slap  a  child  was  some 
thing  to  break  one's  heart. 

The  brief  spring  shower  was  already  spent; 
through  the  clouds  the  moon  was  showing 
her  face — eager  to  discover  what  was  left  of 
the  winter's  snow  after  this  earliest  rain.  As 
yet  the  ground  was  everywhere  white;  the 
night's  deep  silence  told  them  that  many  days 
must  pass  before  they  would  hear  again 
the  dull  roaring  of  the  cataract;  but  the  tem 
pered  breeze  whispered  of  consolation  and 
promise. 

Samuel  Chapdelaine  lapsed  into  silence  for 
a  while,  his  head  bowed,  his  hands  resting 
upon  his  knees,  dreaming  of  the  past  with  its 
toilsome  years  that  were  yet  so  full  of  brave 
hopes.  When  he  took  up  his  tale  it  was  in  a 
voice  that  halted,  melancholy  with  self- 
reproach. 

[268] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

"At  Normandin,  at  Mistassini  and  the 
other  places  we  have  lived  I  always  worked 
hard;  no  one  can  say  nay  to  that.  Many  an 
acre  of  forest  have  I  cleared  and  I  have  built 
houses  and  barns,  always  saying  to  myself 
that  one  day  we  should  have  a  comfortable 
farm  where  your  mother  would  live  as  do  the 
women  in  the  old  parishes,  with  fine  smooth 
fields  all  about  the  house  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see,  a  kitchen  garden,  handsome  well- 
fed  cattle  in  the  farm-yard  .  .  .  And,  after  it 
all,  here  is  she  dead  in  this  half-savage  spot, 
leagues  from  other  houses  and  churches,  and 
so  near  the  bush  that  some  nights  one  can  hear 
the  foxes  bark.  And  it  is  my  fault  that  she 
has  died  so  .  .  .  My  fault  .  .  .  My  fault." 
Remorse  seized  him;  he  shook  his  head  at  the 
pity  of  it,  his  eyes  upon  the  floor. 

"Many  times  it  happened,  after  we  had 
spent  five  or  six  years  in  one  place  and  all  had 
gone  well,  that  we  were  beginning  to  get  to 
gether  a  nice  property — good  pasturage, 
broad  fields  ready  for  sowing,  a  house  lined 
inside  with  pictures  from  the  papers  .  .  . 
Then  people  came  and  settled  about  us;  we 
had  but  to  wait  a  little,  working  on  quietly, 
[269] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

and  soon  we  should  have  been  in  the  midst  of 
a  well-to-do  settlement  where  Laura  could 
have  passed  the  rest  of  her  days  in  happiness 
.  .  .  And  then  all  of  a  sudden  I  lost  heart;  I 
grew  sick  and  tired  of  my  work  and  of  the 
countryside;  I  began  to  hate  the  very  faces 
of  those  who  had  taken  up  land  near-by  and 
used  to  come  to  see  us,  thinking  that  we 
should  be  pleased  to  have  a  visitor  after  being 
so  long  out  of  the  way  of  them.  I  heard  peo 
ple  saying  that  farther  off  toward  the  head 
of  the  Lake  there  was  good  land  in  the  forest; 
that  some  folk  from  St.  Gedeon  spoke  of  set 
tling  over  on  that  side;  and  forthwith  I  began 
to  hunger  and  thirst  for  this  spot  they  were 
talking  about,  that  I  had  never  seen  in  my  life 
and  where  not  a  soul  lived,  as  for  the  place  of 
my  birth  .  .  . 

"Well,  in  those  days,  when  the  work  was 
done,  instead  of  smoking  beside  the  stove  I 
would  go  out  to  the  door-step  and  sit  there 
without  moving,  like  a  man  homesick  and 
lonely;  and  everything  I  saw  in  front  of  me — 
the  place  I  had  made  with  these  two  hands 
after  so  much  of  labour  and  sweat — the  fields, 
the  fences,  over  to  the  rocky  knoll  that  shut 

[270] 


MARIA  CHAPDELAINE 

us  in — I  detested  them  all  till  I  seemed  ready 
to  go  out  of  my  mind  at  the  very  sight  of 
them. 

"And  then  your  mother  would  come  quietly 
up  behind  me.  She  also  would  look  out  across 
our  place,  and  I  knew  that  she  was  pleased 
with  it  to  the  bottom  of  her  heart  because  it 
was  beginning  to  look  like  the  old  parish 
where  she  had  grown  up,  and  where  she  would 
so  gladly  have  spent  her  days.  But  instead  of 
telling  me  that  I  was  no  better  than  a  silly 
old  fool  for  wishing  to  leave — as  most  women 
would  have  done — and  finding  hard  things  to 
say  about  my  folly,  she  only  sighed  a  little  as 
she  thought  of  the  drudgery  that  was  to  be 
gin  all  over  again  somewhere  back  in  the 
woods,  and  kindly  and  softly  she  would  say  to 
me: — 'Well,  Samuel!  Are  we  soon  to  be  on 
the  move  once  more?'  When  she  said  that  I 
could  not  answer,  for  I  was  speechless  with 
very  shame  at  thinking  of  the  wretched  life 
I  had  given  her;  but  I  knew  well  enough  that 
it  would  end  in  our  moving  again  and  pushing 
on  to  the  north,  deeper  into  the  woods,  and 
that  she  would  be  with  me  and  take  her  share 
in  this  hard  business  of  beginning  anew — 
[271] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

as  cheerful  and  capable  and  good-humoured 
as  ever,  without  one  single  word  of  reproach 
or  spitefulness." 

He  was  silent  after  that,  and  seemed  to 
ponder  long  his  sorrow  and  the  things  which 
might  have  been.  Maria,  sighing,  passed  a 
hand  across  her  face  as  though  she  would 
brush  away  a  disquieting  vision;  but  in  very 
truth  there  was  nothing  she  wished  to  forget. 
What  she  heard  had  moved  her  profoundly, 
and  she  felt  in  a  dim  and  troubled  way  that 
this  story  of  a  hard  life  so  bravely  lived  had 
for  her  a  deep  and  timely  significance  and  held 
some  lesson  if  only  she  might  understand  it. 

"How  little  do  we  know  people!"  was  the 
thought  that  filled  her  mind.  Since  her 
mother  had  crossed  the  threshold  of  death  she 
seemed  to  wear  a  new  aspect,  not  of  this 
world;  and  now  all  the  homely  and  familiar 
traits  endearing  her  to  them  were  being  over 
shadowed  by  other  virtues  well-nigh  heroic  in 
their  quality. 

To  pass  her  days  in  these  lonely  places 
when  she  would  have  dearly  loved  the  society 
of  other  human  beings  and  the  unbroken 
peace  of  village  life;  to  strive  from  dawn  till 

[272] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

nightfall,  spending  all  her  strength  in  a 
thousand  heavy  tasks,  and  yet  from  dawn  till 
nightfall  never  losing  patience  nor  her  happy 
tranquillity;  continually  to  see  about  her 
only  the  wilderness,  the  great  pitiless  forest, 
and  to  hold  in  the  midst  of  it  all  an  ordered 
way  of  life,  the  gentleness  and  the  joyousness 
which  are  the  fruits  of  many  a  century  shel 
tered  from  such  rudeness — was  it  not  surely 
a  hard  thing  and  a  worthy?  And  the  recom 
pense?  After  death,  a  little  word  of 
praise. 

Was  it  worth  the  cost?  The  question 
scarcely  framed  itself  with  such  clearness  in 
her  mind,  but  so  her  thoughts  were  tending. 
Thus  to  live,  as  hardly,  as  courageously,  and 
to  be  so  sorely  missed  when  she  departed,  few 
women  were  fit  for  this.  As  for  herself  .  .  . 

The  sky,  flooded  with  moonlight,  was  of  a 
wonderful  lambency  and  depth;  across  the 
whole  arch  of  heaven  a  band  of  cloud,  fash 
ioned  strangely  into  carven  shapes,  defiled 
in  solemn  march.  The  white  ground  no  longer 
spoke  of  chill  and  desolateness,  for  the  air  was 
soft;  and  by  some  magic  of  the  approaching 
spring  the  snow  appeared  to  be  only  a  mask 

[273] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

covering  the  earth's  face,  in  nowise  terrifying 
— a  mask  one  knew  must  soon  be  lifted. 

Maria  seated  by  the  little  window  fixed  her 
unconscious  eyes  upon  the  sky  and  the  fields 
stretching  away  whitely  to  the  environing 
woods,  and  of  a  sudden  it  was  borne  to  her 
that  the  question  she  was  asking  herself  had 
just  received  its  answer.  To  dwell  in  this  land 
as  her  mother  had  dwelt,  and,  dying  thus,  to 
leave  behind  her  a  sorrowing  husband  and  a 
record  of  the  virtues  of  her  race,  she  knew  in 
her  heart  she  was  fit  for  that.  In  reckoning 
with  herself  there  was  no  trace  of  vanity; 
rather  did  the  response  seem  from  without. 
Yes,  she  was  able;  and  she  was  filled  with 
wonderment  as  though  at  the  shining  of 
some  unlooked-for  light. 

Thus  she  too  could  live;  but  ...  it  was 
not  as  yet  in  her  heart  so  to  do  ...  In  a 
little  while,  this  season  of  mourning  at  an  end, 
Lorenzo  Surprenant  would  come  back  from 
the  States  for  the  third  time  and  would  bear 
her  away  to  the  unknown  delights  of  the  city 
— away  from  the  great  forest  she  hated — 
away  from  that  cruel  land  where  men  who  go 
astray  perish  helplessly,  where  women  endure 

[274] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

endless  torment  the  while  ineffectual  aid  is 
sought  for  them  over  the  long  roads  buried 
in  snow.  Why  should  she  stay  here  to  toil 
and  suffer  when  she  might  escape  to  the  lands 
of  the  south  and  a  happier  life? 

The  soft  breeze  telling  of  spring  came 
against  the  window,  bringing  a  confusion  of 
gentle  sounds;  the  swish  and  sigh  of  branches 
swaying  and  touching  one  another,  the  dis 
tant  hooting  of  an  owl.  Then  the  great  silence 
reigned  once  more.  Samuel  Chapdelaine  was 
sleeping;  but  in  this  repose  beside  the  dead 
was  nothing  unseemly  or  wanting  in  respect; 
chin  fallen  on  his  breast,  hands  lying  open 
on  his  knees,  he  seemed  to  be  plunged  into 
the  very  depths  of  sorrow  or  striving  to  relin 
quish  life  that  he  might  follow  the  departed  a 
little  way  into  the  shades. 

Again  Maria  asked  herself: — "Why  stay 
here,  to  toil  and  suffer  thus?  Why?  ..." 
And  when  she  found  no  answer,  it  befell  at 
length  that  out  of  the  silence  and  the  night 
voices  arose. 

No  miraculous  voices  were  these;  each  of  us 
hears  them  when  he  goes  apart  and  withdraws 
himself  far  enough  to  escape  from  the  petty 

[275] 


MARIA          GHAPDELAINE 

turmoil  of  his  daily  life.  But  they  speak  more 
loudly  and  with  plainer  accents  to  the  simple- 
hearted,  to  those  who  dwell  among  the  great 
northern  woods  and  in  the  empty  places  of  the 
earth.  While  yet  Maria  was  dreaming  of  the 
city's  distant  wonders  the  first  voice  brought 
murmuringly  to  her  memory  a  hundred  for 
gotten  charms  of  the  land  she  wished  to  flee. 

The  marvel  of  the  reappearing  earth  in  the 
springtime  after  the  long  months  of  winter 
.  .  .  The  dreaded  snow  stealing  away  in 
prankish  rivulets  down  every  slope;  the  tree- 
roots  first  resurgent,  then  the  mosses  drenched 
with  wet,  soon  the  ground  freed  from  its  bur 
den  whereon  one  treads  with  delighted  glances 
and  sighs  of  happiness  like  the  sick  man  who 
feels  glad  life  returning  to  his  veins  .  .  . 
Later  yet,  the  birches,  alders,  aspens  swelling 
into  bud;  the  laurel  clothing  itself  in  rosy 
bloom  .  .  .  The  rough  battle  with  the  soil 
a  seeming  holiday  to  men  no  longer  con 
demned  to  idleness;  to  draw  the  hard  breath 
of  toil  from  morn  till  eve  a  gracious  fa 
vour  .  .  . 

— The  cattle,  at  last  set  free  from  their 
shed,  gallop  to  the  pasture  and  glut  them- 

[276] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

selves  with  the  fresh  grass.  All  the  new-born 
creatures — the  calves,  the  fowls,  the  lambs, 
gambol  in  the  sun  and  add  daily  to  their 
stature  like  the  hay  and  the  barley.  The 
poorest  farmer  sometimes  halts  in  yard  or 
field,  hands  in  pockets,  and  tastes  the  great 
happiness  of  knowing  that  the  sun's  heat, 
the  warm  rain,  the  earth's  unstinted  alchemy 
— every  mighty  force  of  nature — is  work 
ing  as  a  humble  slave  for  him  ...  for 
him. 

— And  then,  the  summertide;  the  glory  of 
sunny  noons,  the  heated  quivering  air  that 
blurs  the  horizon  and  the  outline  of  the  forest, 
the  flies  swarming  and  circling  in  the  sun's 
rays,  and  but  three  hundred  paces  from  the 
house  the  rapids  and  the  fall — white  foam 
against  dark  water — the  mere  sight  of  it 
filling  one  with  a  delicious  coolness.  In  its  due 
time  the  harvest;  the  grain  that  gives  life 
heaped  into  the  barns;  then  autumn  and  soon 
the  returning  winter  .  .  .  But  here  was  the 
marvel  of  it,  that  the  winter  seemed  no  longer 
abhorrent  or  terrifying;  it  brought  in  its  train 
the  sweet  intimacies  of  a  house  shut  fast,  and 
beyond  the  door,  with  the  sameness  and  the 
[277] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Boundlessness  of  deep-drifted  snow,  peace,  a 
great  peace  .  .  . 

In  the  cities  were  the  strange  and  wonder 
ful  things  whereof  Lorenzo  Surprenant  had 
told,  with  others  that  she  pictured  to  herself 
confusedly:  wide  streets  suffused  with  light, 
gorgeous  shops,  an  easy  life  of  little  toil  with  a 
round  of  small  pleasures  and  distractions. 
Perhaps,  though,  one  would  come  to  tire  of 
this  restlessness,  and,  yearning  some  evening 
only  for  repose  and  quiet,  where  would  one 
discover  the  tranquillity  of  field  and  wood,  the 
soft  touch  of  that  cooler  air  that  draws  from 
the  north-west  after  set  of  sun,  the  wide- 
spreading  peacefulness  that  settles  on  the 
earth  sinking  to  untroubled  sleep. 

"And  yet  they  must  be  beautiful ! "  thought 
she,  still  dreaming  of  those  vast  American 
cities  ...  As  though  in  answer,  a  second 
voice  was  raised. 

— Over  there  was  it  not  a  stranger  land 
where  people  of  an  alien  race  spoke  of  unfa 
miliar  things  in  another  tongue,  sang  other 
songs?  Here  .  .  . 

— The  very  names  of  this  her  country,  those 
she  listened  to  every  day,  those  heard  but 

[278] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

once,  came  crowding  to  memory :  a  thousand 
names  piously  bestowed  by  peasants  from 
France  on  lakes,  on  rivers,  on  the  settlements 
of  the  new  country  they  were  discovering  and 
peopling  as  they  went — lac  a  FEau-Claire — 
la  Famine  —  Saint-Cceur-de-Marie  —  Trois- 
Pistoles — Sainte  Rose-du-D  e  gel — Pointe-aux- 
Outardes — Saint-Andre-de-1'Epouvante  .  .  . 
An  uncle  of  Eutrope  Gagnon's  lived  at  Saint- 
Andre-de-TEpouvante;  Racicot  of  Honfleur 
spoke  often  of  his  son  who  was  a  stoker  on  a 
Gulf  coaster,  and  every  time  new  names  were 
added  to  the  old ;  names  of  fishing  villages  and 
little  harbours  on  the  St.  Lawrence,  scattered 
here  and  there  along  those  shores  between 
which  the  ships  of  the  old  days  had  boldly 
sailed  toward  an  unknown  land — Pointe- 
Mille-Vaches — les  Escoumins — Notre-D ame- 
du-Portage— les  Grandes-Bergeronnes— Gaspe. 
— How  sweet  to  hear  these  names  where 
one  was  talking  of  distant  acquaintance  and 
kinsfolk,  or  telling  of  far  journeys!  How  dear 
and  neighbourly  was  the  sound  of  them,  with 
a  heart-warming  friendly  ring  that  made  one 
feel  as  he  spoke  them: — "Throughout  all  this 
land  we  are  at  home  ...  at  home  .  .  .'* 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

— Westward,  beyond  the  borders  of  the 
Province;  southward,,  across  the  line  were 
everywhere  none  but  English  names.  In  time 
one  might  learn  to  speak  them,  even  might 
they  at  last  come  familiarly  to  the  ear;  but 
where  should  one  find  again  the  happy  music 
of  the  French  names? 

— Words  of  a  foreign  speech  from  every  lip, 
on  every  street,  in  every  shop  .  .  .  Little 
girls  taking  hands  to  dance  a  round  and  sing 
ing  a  song  one  could  not  understand  .  .  . 
Here  .  .  . 

Maria  turned  toward  her  father  who  still 
slept  with  his  chin  sunk  on  his  breast,  looking 
like  a  man  stricken  down  by  grief  whose  med 
itation  is  of  death;  and  the  look  brought  her 
swift  memory  of  the  hymns  and  country  songs 
he  was  wont  to  teach  his  children  in  the  even 
ings. 

A  la  claire  fontaine 

M'en  allant  promener  .  .  . 

In  those  cities  of  the  States,  even  if  one 
taught  the  children  how  to  sing  them  would 
they  not  straightway  forget! 

The  clouds  a  little  while  ago  drifting  singly 
across  a  moonlit  sky  were  now  spread  over  the 

[280] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

heavens  in  a  vast  filmy  curtain,  and  the  dim 
light  passing  through  it  was  caught  by  the 
earth's  pale  coverlet  of  melting  snow;  between 
the  two  wan  expanses  the  ranks  of  the  forest 
darkly  stretched  their  long  battle-front. 

Maria  shuddered;  the  emotion  which  had 
glowed  in  her  heart  was  dying;  once  again  she 
said  to  herself:  "And  yet  it  is  a  harsh  land,  this 
land  of  ours  .  .  .  Why  should  I  linger  here?" 

Then  it  was  that  a  third  voice,  mightier 
than  the  others,  lifted  itself  up  in  the  silence: 
the  voice  of  Quebec — now  the  song  of  a 
woman,  now  the  exhortation  of  a  priest.  It 
came  to  her  with  the  sound  of  a  church  bell, 
with  the  majesty  of  an  organ's  tones,  like  a 
plaintive  love-song,  like  the  long  high  call  of 
woodsmen  in  the  forest.  For  verily  there  was 
in  it  all  that  makes  the  soul  of  the  Province: 
the  loved  solemnities  of  the  ancestral  faith; 
the  lilt  of  that  old  speech  guarded  with  jealous 
care;  the  grandeur  and  the  barbaric  strength 
of  this  new  land  where  an  ancient  race  has 
again  found  its  youth. 

Thus  spake  the  voice: — "Three  hundred 
years  ago  we  came,  and  we  have  remained  . . . 
They  who  led  us  hither  might  return  among 

[281] 


MARIA          GHAPDELAINE 

us  without  knowing  shame  or  sorrow,  for  if  it 
be  true  that  we  have  little  learned,  most 
surely  nothing  is  forgot. 

"We  bore  oversea  our  prayers  and  our 
songs;  they  are  ever  the  same.  We  carried  in 
our  bosoms  the  hearts  of  the  men  of  our 
fatherland,  brave  and  merry,  easily  moved  to 
pity  as  to  laughter,  of  all  human  hearts  the 
most  human;  nor  have  they  changed.  We 
traced  the  boundaries  of  a  new  continent, 
from  Gaspe*  to  Montreal,  from  St.  Jean  d'lber- 
ville  to  Ungava,  saying  as  we  did  it: — Within 
these  limits  all  we  brought  with  us,  our  faith, 
our  tongue,  our  virtues,  our  very  weaknesses 
are  henceforth  hallowed  things  which  no  hand 
may  touch,  which  shall  endure  to  the  end. 

"  Strangers  have  surrounded  us  whom  it  is 
our  pleasure  to  call  foreigners;  they  have 
taken  into  their  hands  most  of  the  rule,  they 
have  gathered  to  themselves  much  of  the 
wealth;  but  in  this  land  of  Quebec  nothing 
has  changed.  Nor  shall  anything  change,  for 
we  are  the  pledge  of  it.  Concerning  ourselves 
and  our  destiny  but  one  duty  have  we  clearly 
understood:  that  we  should  hold  fast — should 
endure.  And  we  have  held  fast,  so  that,  it  may 

[282] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

be,  many  centuries  hence  the  world  will  look 
upon  us  and  say : — These  people  are  of  a  race 
that  knows  not  how  to  perish  .  .  .  We  are 
a  testimony. 

"For  this  is  it  that  we  must  abide  in  that 
Province  where  our  fathers  dwelt,  living  as 
they  have  lived,  so  to  obey  the  unwritten 
command  that  once  shaped  itself  in  their 
hearts,  that  passed  to  ours,  which  we  in  turn 
must  hand  on  to  descendants  innumerable: — 
In  this  land  of  Quebec  naught  shall  die  and 
naught  shall  suffer  change  / .  ." 

The  veil  of  gray  clou<|  which  hid  the  whole 
heavens  had  become  heavier  and  more  lour 
ing,  and  suddenly  the  rain  began  afresh, 
bringing  yet  a  little  nearer  that  joyous  hour 
when  the  earth  would  lie  bare  and  the  rivers 
be  freed.  Samuel  Ghapdelaine  slept  pro 
foundly,  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast,  an 
old  man  yielding  at  last  to  the  long  fatigues 
of  his  lifetime  of  toil.  Above  the  candlestick 
of  metal  and  the  glass  bowl  the  candle  flames 
wavered  under  gentle  breaths  from  the  win 
dow,  and  shadows  flitting  across  the  face  of 
the  dead  woman  made  her  lips  seem  to  be 
moving  in  prayer  or  softly  telling  secrets. 

[283] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

Maria  Ghapdelaine  awaked  from  her  dream 
to  the  thought: — "So  I  shall  stay — shall  stay 
here  after  all!"  For  the  voices  had  spoken 
commandingly  and  she  knew  she  could  not 
choose  but  obey.  It  was  only  then  that  the 
recollection  of  other  duties  came,  after  she 
had  submitted,  and  a  sigh  had  passed  her 
lips.  Alma  Rose  was  still  a  child;  her  mother 
dead,  there  must  be  a  woman  in  the  house. 
But  in  truth  it  was  the  voices  which  had  told 
her  the  way. 

The  rain  was  pattering  on  the  roof,  and 
nature,  rejoicing  that  winter  was  past,  sent 
soft  little  wandering  airs  through  the  case 
ment  as  though  she  were  sighing  in  content. 
Throughout  the  hours  of  the  night  Maria 
moved  not;  with  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
patient  of  spirit  and  without  bitterness,  yet 
dreaming  a  little  wistfully  of  the  far-off  won 
ders  her  eyes  would  never  behold  and  of  the 
land  wherein  she  was  bidden  to  live  with  its 
store  of  sorrowful  memories;  of  the  living 
flame  which  her  heart  had  known  awhile  and 
lost  forever,  and  the  deep  snowy  woods 
whence  too  daring  youths  shall  no  more 
return. 

[284] 


CHAPTER  XVI 
PLEDGED  TO  THE  RACE 


Esdras  and  Da' Be  came  down  from. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
PLEDGED  TO  THE  RACE 

SDRAS  and  Da'B6  came  down 
from  the  shanties  in  May,  and 
their  grieving  brought  freshly  to 
the  household  the  pain  of  bereave 
ment.  But  the  naked  earth  was 
lying  ready  for  the  seed,  and 
mourning  must  not  delay  the  season's 
labours. 

Eutrope  Gagnon  was  there  one  evening  to 
pay  them  a  visit,  and  a  glance  he  stole  at 
Maria's  face  perhaps  told  him  of  a  change  in 
her,  for  when  they  were  alone  he  put  the 
question: — "Maria,  do  you  still  think  of 
going  away?" 

Her  eyes  were  lowered,  as  with  a  motion  of 
her  head  she  signified  "  No. " 

"Then  ...  I  know  well  that  this  is  no 
time  to  speak  of  such  things,  but  if  only  you 
could  say  there  would  be  a  chance  for  me 
one  day,  then  could  I  bear  the  waiting 
better." 

And    Maria    answered    him: — "Yes  .  .  . 

1287] 


MARIA          CHAPDELAINE 

If  you  wish  I  will  marry  you  as  you  asked  me 
to  ...  In  the  spring — the  spring  after 
this  spring  now — when  the  men  come  back 
from  the  woods  for  the  sowing." 


[288] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-8,'66(G5530s4)45S 


Hemon,  L, 

Maria  Chapdelaine. 


PQ2615 


M33 
1921 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


